Educating America
by Coffee-Flavored Fate
Summary: America wants to get to know Romano better. Romano just wants to fix the idiot's tastebuds.  Conservatively rated for Romano's mouth . 'cause there just isn't enough Romerica out there.
1. It Starts

**Disc: I don't own Hetalia or it's characters. This is purely fanwork borne from a desire for more Romano. More Romano!**

_Don't worry about reviewing. This is mostly self-service, as it were. Not that I hope you don't enjoy it, of course, but I won't cry if you don't. _

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It all started because that idiot Feliciano got himself sick. Not seriously or anything, it was just a stupid cold, but it was enough to keep him from going to the world meetings, which meant Romano had to go instead. He tended to skip them whenever he could. After all, Feliciano almost invariably attended, since wherever Germany went you could find North Italy, and the meetings didn't need two Italys. He hated feeling superfluous. Besides, on the rare occasion he did go stupid Spain and his bastard friends tended to be there, and when all three of them were together they spent so much time harassing him and anyone else within touching distance that he could never concentrate on getting any work done.

But here he was, sitting through a tedious (but thankfully Spain-free) meeting 'cause that idiot brother of his wasn't up to the task and _someone_ had to represent their interests. Someone had to Get Shit Done.

Which, ok, he was not going to admit that he was doing a pretty crappy job of, actually. He'd fallen asleep after the first half hour of the meeting, which wasn't his fault, dammit. The meeting had started late, and he'd been up all night taking care of stupid Feliciano (not that he was _worried_ about the moron, it's just that if Feliciano was sick then Romano would have to do all the work for the _both_ of them, and all that coughing and sniffling would have kept him up all night anyway), and really half of the nations could go back and forth ad naseum about absolutely nothing. It was amazing more people didn't sleep through meetings.

He hadn't even woken when America'd slammed his hand on the table and declared the meeting adjourned. Finally blinking awake, groggy and slightly disoriented, he hoped he hadn't missed anything important. Highly unlikely, but he made a mental note to steal the potato-bastard's notes later to make sure. The room was nearly empty now, just a few stragglers here and there, chatting or wrapping up business. Oh well, it wasn't like he'd had any business to take care of during the meeting, himself. In fact, aside from showing up and representing his nation, the only real business he had this time 'round was with that idiot America.

Who was on his way out, Romano noticed, so he'd better get his butt in gear.

"Oi, you! America! Wait up, you stupid bastard!" He called out. The nation in question shot a curious glance over his shoulder in response, stopping obediently as he waited for Romano to catch up.

"Hey there!" he greeted Romano with a smile. "What's up?"

"You keep your 'hey there'," Romano grumbled, "I've got business with you."

"You do?" America's sunny smile didn't falter.

"You think I'd be wasting my time with you otherwise, bastard?" Romano huffed, irritated by the other's incessant good cheer.

"I don't know for sure," America admitted, "I don't know you well enough to guess your motivation. But hey," he continued, cutting across what would've been a scathing retort from Romano,"Can we discuss it over lunch? I sorta missed breakfast, and I'm starving."

"What? I'd rather not spend any more time with you than I-"

"Great!" America interrupted again, slinging an arm around the Italian's shoulders and ushering him out the door. "I know a little diner right down the street, it'll be great!"

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_AN: I have no control over the characters. They just do whatever they want. Is that normal? It plays merry hell with my plotlines, such as they are. _


	2. Truck Stop Coffee is Terrible

**disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, it's characters or related properties. **

_This might be awkward._

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It's really far too late for lunch, and the diner turns out to be more of a truck stop, which Romano wasn't too familiar with since they don't really do truck stops in Italy; at least, not to the degree America does (and even if they did, he wouldn't be caught dead in one). The air is greasy, smoky, the lighting is dim and harsh at the same time. It glares off the chrome and red vinyl furnishings, casting everything in a sort of grim relief. America, whose arm is still around his shoulders, drags him past the counter lined with burly, serious-looking men, hunched over plates and huge vats of coffee with the air of men to whom Time is Money and food is Serious Business. Some of them glance up in the midst of their frenzied shoveling to greet America as they pass, with a nod or a "Heya, Al." and he calls back a cheery "Heya fellas!" as he manhandles Romano into a booth. Plopping into the opposite seat and leaning his elbows on the table, he drops his chin into his palm and flashes a grin at Romano (who is is looking at him like he's crazy). America opens his mouth to say something, but is interrupted by the arrival of the biggest hamburger Romano has ever seen, along with a small mountain of fries.

"You're late today, Al." the waitress attending this abomination greets fondly, snapping her chewing gum with a grin."Everythin' ok?"

He beams up at her like a little boy as she sets the plate in front of him.

"Great, thanks! How's things?" he asks, mouth already full. 'Gladys' rolls her eyes, swatting his shoulder.

"Don't talk with your mouth full, kiddo. Who's your pal?" she asks, turning to Romano.

America swallows hastily, "This is my buddy Romano," he replies (they both ignore Romano's snarl of "I'm not your buddy, bastard!"), "We're sort of partners. We had some work to take care of but things ran late, so we're having a business lunch!"

"Only you would think of having a business lunch in this dive." she shakes her head, and smiles at Romano. "Can I get you anything, hon?"

Romano shakes his head. Watching that big blond idiot wolf his meat monstrosity was more than enough to kill what little appetite he might have had. "I'll just have some water, thanks."

"Bring him a chocolate malt, Gladys." America casually overrided once again, licking catsup from his fingers, "and a cherry soda for me, too."

"Alright sweetheart." she pockets her notepad and leaves.

"I don't need anything." Romano frowns, not really sure what a 'malt' is, here. The way things were going, he hopes it's alchoholic.

"If you don't like it, I'll drink it." America shrugs. "But you'll love it, they're awesome here. You sure you're not hungry? You can share my fries if you'd like." he offers. Romano's amazed to see that he's halfway done with his burger. He shakes his head again, both in disbelief and refusal.

"Watching you eat killed my appetite, jerk."

"Haha, alright!" America laughs, mouth full.

"And don't talk with your mouth full, idiot! Cheh!"

"You tell 'im, darlin'." Gladys' voice calls distantly from the kitchens.

* * *

While they're wait for their drinks to arrive, America's observing Romano over his burger and fries. He's pretty happy to have him here, 'cause, well...

He'd noticed South Italy fall asleep during the conference. He'd briefly considered waking him up, but Romano had looked so tired when he'd arrived for the meeting, and was resting so peacefully that America didn't have the heart to disturb him (it wasn't like there was anything important going on, anyway. Some of those nations could go on and on _forever_).

It'd occured to him that he'd never actually seen Romano so...relaxed. Not that he saw him very often, but when he did the other nation was always either yelling at North Italy, or yelling at Spain, or yelling at Germany, or trying to fend off France and Spain and Prussia and yelling at _everybody_. Now, though, with his head pillowed in his arms and sprawling slightly across both the table and his seat, without his perpetual scowl, he looked...different. Almost..._sweet_.

America tried to focus back on the meeting, but found himself increasingly drawn in by the novelty of the other's sleeping face. His gaze kept returning to the half-nation, noticing something new each time. The softness of the curve of his lips when not drawn tight into his usual frown, or the fineness of his nose and cheekbones, or the surprising strength and elegance in the arch of his neck. The way the sunlight falling through the conference room windows lit his dark hair and golden skin, lending him a fiery halo.

Then there'd been a loud noise from the other side of the room, someone dropping something. Romano's brows had drawn together in a small frown, and America's own lips turned down in an answering frown to see it. He'd been struck with the strangest urge to reach over and soothe it away, to smooth the furrow with his fingertips.

The strangeness of that thought shook him.

Suddenly realizing what he'd been doing, staring at an innocently sleeping nation for who-knows-how-long, he'd shifted in his seat to face away, hoping that would be enough to distract him from his worrying new fascination. His face burned in embarrassment. He felt like a stalker. Maybe he'd been spending too much time with Russia, lately? Or his creepy sister, whatsername, Bel-Air or whatever. They hadn't actually been spending any time _together_, per se_, _but their seats weren't far from his. Maybe the siblings' combined creepiness was so strong it could effect people from a distance. Airborne infection, or something.

Crap, what if he was catching communism? He wasn't sure how it worked. Was this how you became one with Russia? Maybe strange obsessions with other nations was the first sign...

Okay, now he was just being silly. America was _way_ too awesome to be a communist.

Internal crisis resolved, he'd struggled to return his focus to the meeting, and succeeded for a while. But it was desperately boring, and his thoughts turned inexorably back to South Italy. Mentally replaying all of their (very few) past encounters, he realized he knew very little about him, actually.

He decided he'd like to get to know Romano better. But how?

Under normal circumstances, if he wanted to get to know someone, he'd just walk up and start a conversation. Everyone wants to be friends with _America_, right?Something told him that wasn't the best course of action here, though. First of all, he didn't want to wake the other up, and second, he was fairly sure from what little he knew of him that the high-strung nation would not respond well to that sort of approach.

He could ask around, he supposed, and check his information online, or keep watching him from a distance, but he was trying to be _less _creepy-stalkerish, not more. He needed to find a way to talk to Romano that wouldn't scare him off or involve stalking of any kind.

After the meeting he'd lingered, still trying to come up with a plan to get to know Romano properly (or possibly just waiting for Romano to wake up). He'd finally given up and decided to head out, realizing that his behaviour was bordering on pathetic, and was therefore pleasantly surprised when Romano'd approached him just as he was about to leave.

Being a country who knew how to take full advantage of good fortune when it presented itself, America had siezed the opportunity accordingly.

Which brought them here. Now, a truck stop is probably not the best place to get to know Romano, he knows, but he's winging it, and he hadn't been kidding about being hungry, and he's been eating here almost every day lately. It's familiar ground for him, and he's hoping that if _he's _relaxed and comfortable maybe he can find a way to get Romano to open up. So he's watching Romano, hoping for a clue on how to proceed.

The small Italian is shifting slightly in his seat, looking vaguely uncomfortable, like he feels out of place. He's alternately fiddling with his shirtcuff and toying awkwardly with his buttons. America's eyes are drawn to his fingers, slim and deft, as they pluck at cloth and mother-of-pearl. Hazel eyes glance uneasily around the diner from under lowered lashes, brows furrowed and lips curved into his habitual frown. Slender shoulders hunch slightly as he watches, drawing up protectively around his neck. America's own brows furrow in response, wondering what's causing his distress. He wonders if he should ask, or if drawing attention to it would just piss him off, when Romano finally notices him staring.

For his part, Romano's wondering why the hell he let this idiot drag him along. He's a little intimidated by all the huge, burly men in this place, and frustrated and angry with himself for being intimidated. Is everyone in America so huge? It's as bad as Germany. How the hell do these guys get so gigantic? They're more like bears than people. Steroids in the coffee, or something?

It's almost a relief to notice that America, that oblivious idiot, is watching him curiously.

"What are you staring at, bastard!" he snaps, glad to have something to snarl about.

"You." America answers honestly. Romano isn't sure how to respond to that, really.

"W-well stop it, it's creepy." he crosses his arms and stares at the salt and pepper shakers to hide his blush.

"Sorry." he says, insincerely, as he coats a fry in ketchup, "It's just, you're very interesting." (He almost adds 'I'd like to get to know you better." but thinks that might be taken the wrong way.)

"Chigi! B-bastard!" Romano sputters in incoherent embarassment for a moment, ears burning crimson. "You don't j-just... _say_ stuff like that, moron! Didn't that jerk England teach you _anything_?"

A half-shrug. "Probably, but if I listened to half the stuff England told me I'd never get anything done."

Romano grudgingly concedes the point. England, already reserved by nature, had a tendency to become unbelievably uptight and irascible when it came to this particular former colony. "Whatever, idiot." he mutters, "Let's just get down to business."

"Haha! Okay!"

* * *

_AN: I don't know what happened with the tense in this. It came out that way. _


	3. America is Surprisingly Competent

**Disc: I don't own Hetalia or it's characters, and those who do would probably cry to see what I've done with them. **

_I love truck stops. They're like time capsules!_

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The work portion goes fairly smoothly, to Romano's relief. It takes a little longer than he'd planned, though not for the reasons he'd have guessed. America takes business alot more seriously than he'd expected, not having worked one-on-one with him on business matters before. Feliciano'd always handled relations with America, since he didn't want the headache he'd assumed he'd have from dealing with another hyper airhead. But no, he actually had a good eye for detail. He's a bit more straightforward than Romano is used to, but asks pertinent questions and makes insightful observations; and listens carefully to Romano's input. Not only does he take work seriously, but to Romano's surprise, he's taking _Romano_ seriously (this may or may not give Romano a warm, fuzzy feeling, which he ignores). His respect for the nation rises a notch. He'd always vaguely assumed America had gained his status out of some sort of combination of dumb luck and muscle, but if he always approached his work this way Romano could understand why he'd become such a power.

Also, no-one has said the word 'hero' in all this time.

He's almost in danger of enjoying himself.

Speaking of which, the malt is every bit as good as America had promised- thick, rich, and chocolaty, but not too sweet, topped with real whipped cream and three fresh, ripe cherries ("From the local farmer's market." America informs him as he steals one, because "It's no fair you got three, she only ever gives me one." Romano smacks his hand with a spoon, 'cause those are his cherries, dammit, and he deserves them for having to deal with this mannerless bastard). He ends up finishing two while they work, and doesn't protest when Gladys brings him another.

He'll probably blame the sugar later, but he barely notices as the conversation turns from commerce and cultural exchanges to more casual matters. They discuss, among other things, the 'appeal' of truck stops ("It's basically the same food and atmosphere inside no matter where or when you are, but you never know who you're going to _meet_ inside." America explains,"It's always different and new at the same time, like stepping into an alternate universe!"), the _Leaning Tower of Pisa_ ("Don't look at me, bastard, that's _North_ Italy's. My architecture is damn _gorgeous_. Ever heard of _St Peter's Square_? _Reggia di Caserta? _Philistine."), and perhaps predicably, the _Godfather_ movies (America loves them, and the Italian doesn't mention that he'd always felt vaguely guilty while watching them, that his troubles had spread to this country as well. He attempts to apologize in an awkward and roundabout way for the existence of said mafia in America, who understands what he's trying to say and assures him with a surprisingly gentle smile, "I never blamed you, Romano, no worries!", which is a weight off Romano's shoulders, though he just scowls and throws a cherry pit at America's head. America just grins and laughs). He's almost finished with his third malt when Gladys comes by to clear up their table.

"You boys need anything else? My shift's done in 5 minutes." she asks, gathering cups and plates. America blinks in surprise. Neither has noticed how much time has passed 'till now.

"Oh, wow, I didn't realize how late it was." he shifts, pulling out his wallet and throwing a card on the table. "Just put everything on that, ok? And I'll have a couple burgers to go."

"Ugh." Romano scoffs, slurping the last of his malt and handing the glass off to the waitress. "Don't tell me you're having burgers for dinner. How can you eat that crap?"

"It's not crap, it's good!" America defends.

"It's a disgrace to the name of food. Don't you ever eat anything else?"

"Of course! I have donuts and coffee for breakfast."

"Sometimes he has hotdogs with his hamburgers." Gladys comments, wiping up the soda rings in front of America. "Or ice cream and pie. He eats here just about every day."

"That's disgusting. How are you still alive?"

America pouts at being ganged up on. "I'm not that bad. And besides, it's delicious."

"Che" scoffs Romano again, while at the same time Gladys scolds, "You're like a big kid, I swear." she leans towards Romano conspiratorily. "I don't think he knows what real food _is_." she straightens and ruffles America's hair. "You need someone to take care of you, kiddo."

"Hey! I can take care of myself just fine!" Romano seriously doubted that. "And hamburgers are real food." he calls after her retreating back. She just waves over her shoulder and calls back. "Scrapin' by on fast food is not takin' care of yourself, hun."

Romano shakes his head. "That crap you stuff in your face is not 'real food'." He stands, smoothing out the wrinkles in his slacks. "You want to taste _real_ food you should come to my place sometime, the restaraunts in Italy wouldn't be caught dead serving that shit. I'll show you what _delicious _actually means."

America, who's been sulking like the kid Gladys claimed him to be, blinks at him, taken aback, and breaks into a beaming smile. "Ok, Romano, it's a deal! I'm free next Saturday, ok?"

Now it was Romano's turn to blink. "What?" He replays what he'd said, and curses internally. It'd been rhetorical! He hadn't actually expected the American to accept! "What? No, I-"

"You can't take it back now~" America's grin takes up half his face. The idiot's practically bouncing in his seat. "You wanna teach me what 'real food' is, right?"

Romano frowns, trying to think of a way out of this. Other than a flat-out refusal, nothing comes to mind, and the American looks so excited he feels vaguely guilty about shooting him down. He curses himself for opening his big mouth. "Chigi_! Fine_. But I'm not paying. In fact, you're paying since I'm doing you a favour."

"Haha! Okay, I can live with that."

"...crazy bastard."

"Next Saturday, then!" America stands, running a hand through his hair with a smile. "That's cool for you, right?"

"Fine, whatever."

"Great, it's a date!"

"IT'S NOT A DATE!"

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_AN: I think it's fairly obvious that I have a fondness for commas. Parenthesis, too. _


	4. IT'S NOT A DATE

**Disc: I don't own Hetalia or it's characters, and those who do would probably cry to see what I've done with them. **

_For sakerat, who seems to be enjoying reading this as much as I'm enjoying writing it. _

_It's short, I know, but this is still my favourite chapter. _

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**"**It's not a date!" Romano corrected his brother, frustrated.

Feliciano, sitting on his brother's bed, just smiled amicably. "Ve~, I think it's great that you're making new friends." he chirped, watching his brother search through his wardrobe for an outfit for Saturday. "The maroon shirt really brings out your eyes~, Romano."

"Cheh! I can dress myself, idiot." Romano growled, rifling through his shirts. "And I don't need my eyes brought anywhere. This is not a date." He pulled out two maroon shirts. "The one with the double collar or the cutaway?"

"Ah~ the double collar is best, it accentuates the dip in your collarbone." Romano did have very nice collarbones. "And the curve of your neck."

" 'Kay." Romano put the insuffiently-complimentary maroon shirt back. "I'm just trying to teach the stupid American that hamburgers are not food. It's a mission of mercy. Charcoal tie or olive?"

"Ve~" Feliciano considered. "Olive, but not the solid one." he got up and went to dig through his brother's tie rack. "He really eats them all the time? I thought he just did that to make England mad." He found what he was after fairly quickly. "Here! This one with the light gold pattern in it, it'll make the gold flecks in your eyes pop."

"I don't need my damn eyes to pop." Romano grumbled, snatching the tie from his brother and examining it against the shirt. "And brow-bastard's the one who fucked up his tastebuds to begin with." He nodded, satisfied. "Nice. I have a tie clip and some cufflinks that'll go great with this." He hung the shirt and tie on a hook inside the closet door. "Shoes, shoes..."

"Me and Ludwig should come too! I haven't been out with you in forever, it'll be so much fun!"

Romano, on his knees in his closet going through his shoe rack, automatically opened his mouth to refuse, but paused as a thought occurred to him. If it was just him alone with America, he'd eventually get so annoyed with the idiot's inability to behave in a civilized manner for 5 minutes straight that he'd probably end up smashing his stupid, smiling face into the dessert cart. Feliciano, who got along with pretty much everyone, might make a decent buffer for the American's stupidity. And Germany, as much as he hated to admit it, would be useful to have around (for once), since he had ample experience in keeping hyper airheads under control. (Also, two guys eating alone together in a restaraunt was something you did on dates, _and this was totally not a date_)_. _"Yeah, sure." he grudgingly agreed. "You and the po_- Germany_ can come along. But Germany's paying for your half."

"Ve~ Of course!" Feliciano clapped his hands joyfully. "This will be wonderful! Oh, and I got some shoes on my last shopping trip with Feliks that might work, let me get them!" he called, running out the door. "I can't wait to tell Germany we're going on a double date!"

"_IT'S NOT A DATE!"_

_

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AN: Feliciano has an artist's eye, which comes in handy sometimes. He does say 've' an awful lot though. Maybe it's a nervous tic?


	5. Fashion Faux Pas

**Disclaimer: I do not own any incarnation of Hetalia. **

_In the grand tradition of fanfiction, I disregard canon further. And torture Romano, because he's adorable. He really, really is. I also pick on America a bit, but he's like a superball- the harder you throw him, the harder he bounces back._

* * *

Romano was _not _excited and anxious about his not-a-date with America. He was just...a little nervous, 'cause it'd been a long time since he'd been out to eat for a reason unrelated to business. How long was it since he'd last gone out just to have fun? That was a depressing thought, really, so he stopped thinking it. Still, doubts crept in. What if he was so out of practice that he'd forgotten something vital? He frantically ran through the preparations in his head. He'd made the reservations, and confirmed them (4 times, as if any restaraunt in Italy would ever dream of refusing him a table, let alone require a reservation of him), check. He'd called America days ago to let him know when he should arrive (and knowing the American's tendency to arrive late to meetings, had told him to be here at 6, when he actually didn't need to be here until 7:30, just to be on the safe side). Check again. The spudface was sitting stiffly on the couch downstairs, appropriately suited up and being fussed over by Feliciano, check. Transportation? America would be driving him, and Germany would be driving his brother, check there too. Anything else? Hm...weather? The forecast for the entire weekend was clear last few times he checked, but maybe he should check again, just to be sure. He flipped open his cell and pressed a few keys. Yep, all clear. Ok.

No butterflies in his stomach. Nope. (He tried not to think about what America had said in the diner. _Interesting_? What the hell was that supposed to mean? In what way was he interesting? In a good way? In a bad way? America had been smiling when he said it, but that could mean anything!)

Unable to relax, he crossed over to the mirror, to adjust his tie again and make sure that he hadn't forgotten to put on pants, or something, by mistake. Nope, there they were, pants. He looked damn good, in fact, if he said so himself. Feliciano had been right about the shirt and the tie both (not that he'd ever tell him so).

He fidgeted a bit with his accessories, debating whether he should stick with the gold pinky ring set with topaz which he currently wore, or switch for the platinum one engraved with tomato vines (the gold matched his tie clip and cufflinks, but the platinum was elegant and understated, and he hadn't had a chance to wear it yet), when the tell-tale roar of a motorcycle outside alerted him to America's arrival. He froze for a moment, widened eyes darting to the clock. _It's only 5:10!_ _He's almost an hour earlier than I told him to be!_

"I got it!" he hollered, bolting down the stairs and to the door before his moron of a brother could answer it, and flung it open.

America stood outside, one hand raised to knock on the door, eyes wide in surprise. They stared at each other in a moment of awkward silence.

America recovered first, breaking into his trademark grin. "Hey Romano! The hero has arrived!" When Romano failed to reply and just continued to stare blankly, he shifted slightly, running a hand through his hair, and his smile turned sheepish."I hope you don't mind that I came early, I wasn't sure what the traffic was like here."

Romano narrowed his eyes, and lunged forward to grab the taller nation by his tie and yank him inside, where the noisy blond couldn't embarrass him in front of his neighbors any further. "You're late." he snapped (blatantly false, but he'd fully anticipated that America would arrive late, so he was thrown a little off-balance and felt perversely unwilling to let the bastard rob him of his opening line with his unexpectedly premature arrival). Feeling more like himself now that he'd complained he finally took in the other's appearance. "...And what the _hell_ are you wearing?"

America blinked twice, and looked down at himself. "...what I usually wear?" Indeed, he sported his habitual bomber jacket and fatigues. Romano squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. He counted to ten. It didn't help.

"I'm not going to be seen anywhere in public with you dressed like that." he ground out.

"What's wrong with it?" America asked, confused.

"What _isn't_ wrong with it." Romano gave the bomber jacket a dismissive flick with the back of his hand. Germany poked his head into the foyer to see what was going on. He entered fully when he saw America, greeting the other nation with a stiff nod.

"Amerika."

"Heya Germany." America smiled and waved.

"America's here?" Feliciano called from the other room, "He's early!" His head peeked around the corner, uttering a "Ve~" of delight when he saw their guest.

"Mr. America, it's good to see you!" Feliciano beamed, bounding up to them. "Oh, but you're not dressed!" he frowned, looking him over.

"I_ know. _The_ idiot,_" his brother responded before America had the chance, gesticulating in frustration, "doesn't have a _clue_!" Feliciano patted his shoulder sympathetically, offering a soft "Ve~" of consolation.

"_You_," Romano demanded, pointing up at America (who fought the urge to lean back, unwilling to admit feeling slightly intimidated by the small, irate Italian), "are going to have to dress properly before we go anywhere."

"Um...I didn't bring any other clothes along..." America replied, at a loss. He caught the eye of Germany, who gave him a commiserating look. He'd gone through something similar on his first date with Italy. "Can't I just wear this?"

Both the Italians give him a _look._

"No." Romano stated firmly, while his brother shook his head in dismay. "Now shut up, idiot, while we figure out how to fix this." The brothers turned to each other, sharing a glance as they visibly entered Fashion-Disaster Recovery mode.

"Hmm...well~ he's too big to fit into any of our clothes." Feliciano observed, pulling America's jacket open with one hand, head canted thoughtfully.

"Spain's stuff wouldn't fit him either. He's freakishly big." Romano agreed (America pouted a bit at that). He tapped his chin with a forefinger, his own head tilted in the opposite direction as he and his brother consider their options. "Do you have anything of the potato-bastard's that'd work?"

"Ve~." Feliciano shook his head regretfully. "No, he never leaves clothes over."

"Probably for the best, he has no sense of style anyway." Germany shifted uncomfortably when the younger Italian just nodded in agreement. It's true North Italy had picked out his clothes for this evening, but he wasn't that bad, was he?

He traded a bemused and slightly embarrassed glance (accompanied by a half-smile on America's part, and more of an awkward twist of the lips from Germany) with the other apparently style-challenged blond, whom otherwise was, somewhat surprisingly, doing as he was told and standing quietly (looking every bit as clueless as described) while the two halves of Italy tried to figure out what to do with him.

"I know! Why don't you take him out to shop for something quick? Germany and I will go ahead and meet you at the restaraunt."

Romano sighed deeply and squared his shoulders. "Cheh. Looks like the only option." Feliciano nodded and patted his shoulder again, before bouncing over to Germany and seizing his arm.

"Alright then~" he smiled at them both, dragging Germany out the door. "We'll see you there!" Germany managed to mouth a quick "Good luck" to America as he passed. America appreciated it.

He turned back to Romano, feeling slightly trepidatious. "Alright!" he jumped as Romano barked, arms crossed and wearing a determined scowl. "Let's go and find you something to wear that won't completely embarrass me when I'm seen with you."

"Uh..." hesitated America, bewildered by the way things were going. The Italian rolled his eyes and shoved him out the door.

"Out!"

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_AN: I'm being a little unfair to Germany here. Although his normal sense of style is a bit...questionable, he actually dressed up quite nicely for his first date with Italy. And proposed. The whole thing was terribly, terribly awkward, especially since Italy didn't realize it was a date. Kind of like Romano and America here, actually, except in reverse, and without the 'actually being a date' part._

_Also, if you ever go to Italy, for any reason, dress up. Even if you're just going to stand around in the airport, or visit a friend, or stand on the corner picking your nose. If you're style-challenged, get someone to help you choose outfits. This is an Important Travel Tip. _

_America's part comes next. _


	6. Do Your Best, America!

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, or the characters, but man I'm having fun with them.**

_In which America is a little oblivious. In his defence, though, he's running on practically no sleep. Same as me. _

_To all of you who were excited about dressing America up in this chapter, I apologize. Soon, I promise (I'm excited about it too)._

* * *

America had been pretty stoked after he'd left the truckstop diner. Not only had that whole experience gone way better than he could have hoped, but he'd managed to score a date for next Saturday. Well, ok, not a real _date_, date, but still. Definitely a big step in his goal of getting to know Romano!

He'd ridden an excited buzz all the way home. He felt like a kid waiting for Christmas, and knew he'd be counting the days 'till Saturday, and went to bed early (with the time-honoured reasoning that it would make Saturday come all the sooner). America arrived early to work the next morning practically vibrating with excitement and good cheer.

Which was dampened somewhat when he found out that there'd been an unexpected influx of urgent matters overnight; which since the Boss's Vice was on vacation for two weeks, left him to handle things pretty much on his own. This meant America was expected to work through the weekend in order to take care of it all in time.

Not good. At all.

Which left him with a dilemma. Cancelling his dinner with Romano wasn't an option. It'd been an amazing stroke of good fortune that America had managed to obtain it in the first place. It wasn't like Romano had even intended to invite him to begin with (he knew that much, but he also knew how to take advantage of an opening when he was presented with one, intentional or not), and if he cancelled now, well...he had no illusions that the opportunity was likely to arise again. There was no way he was going to let this chance slip through his fingers. He had one shot, and he couldn't, _wouldn't_, waste it.

There was nothing for it, then. Decision made, America rolled up his metaphorical sleeves and got down to business.

He threw himself into his work, putting in 20 hours or more each day. He ate and slept at the office, working through breaks, living on coffee and energy drinks and snacks from the vending machines (they might not be 'real' by Romano's standards, but they were pretty convenient when you worked as much as America did). He was determined to finish in time, come hell or high water.

Despite the grueling schedule and inevitable exhaustion, his coworkers were surprised to notice that America was in abnormally high spirits day after day, even for him. Papers were signed, proposals read, reports written, meetings attended and Big Decisions were made, all with an infectiously sunny smile and a bounce in his step.

The reason? While America's hands were full of work, his mind was full of Romano.

He was thinking of Romano's peacefully sleeping face, or how the Italian got all flushed and spluttery, yelling and huffing when he was flustered (and he was so easily flustered), or fiddled with his clothes when he was nervous.

He was remembering the way hazel eyes flashed when he was riled, shone when he was pleased, or shadowed when he was unsure, and sharpened when he was focused or interested in the subject at hand. America had been mesmerised with how those expressive eyes displayed the Italian's real thoughts despite his outward bluster. He wanted to see what they looked like when Romano was happy, or excited. A whole array of emotions, actually.

Romano's hands, too, were wonderfully expressive. Long-fingered and agile, they spoke volumes with a grace that his words lacked. They splayed and curved, curled and flexed; dancing on the table, in the air, across documents, articulating in motion more emotions than America could keep track of or interpret. It was fascinating to watch, and he wanted very much to learn to understand the meaning of each little gesture, each movement.

Romano would never be able to conceal his true feelings. His hands and his eyes would betray him, everytime.

He'd smile whenever he recalled Romano's face when he'd taken his first sip of the malt America had insisted that he at least try. He'd scowled and grumbled, but wrapped his lips around the straw, and America could tell the second the malt hit his tongue. Romano's eyes had lit up, his eyebrows lifting incrementally, and his fingers tightened reflexively around the cup, drawing it closer to him. He'd recovered his habitual scowl almost immediately, and obviously unwilling to admit that he enjoyed it aloud, he looked away and muttered "I suppose since you ordered it, I might as well drink it.", a light blush dusting his cheekbones.

Or the pleasure he took in describing his architecture, eyes glowing with self-satisfaction, chin lifted with pride, gesturing expansively as he boasted about arches and mosaics and basilicas (none of which America understood, but it was just so... _adorable _how proud he was that America felt all warm and fuzzy inside just listening to him).

Or the endearing way he'd tried to apologize for the _mafia,_ of all things. Shifting and mumbing, flushing awkwardly, hunched in on himself, looking haunted and guilty. It'd taken America a moment to figure out what was bothering him, and he could have kicked himself for introducing the subject (not awesome or heroic_ at all)_. He was a little surprised to realize that the half-nation felt the need to apologize for something so clearly beyond his control. It was really kind of sweet of Romano to try to take responsibility, and he was a little impressed, but he'd hastened to assure him that it wasn't necessary. At all. After all, he himself knew quite well that although they _personified_ their nations, their influence over their citizens only extended so far, hero or not. Sometimes their people or governments did things that contradicted everything they, themselves, stood for.

It'd been a relief to see the shadows clear from Romano's eyes, the tension in his posture ease. It'd disturbed him to see the fiery Italian so depressed, and he couldn't help but chuckle when the other had chucked a cherry pit at his head, pleased that Romano was feeling more himself.

In some ways, he sort of reminded America of an awkward, temperamental kitten most of the time. One of those cagey feral ones that you have to tempt with delicious treats and soothing noises for _ages_ before it comes close enough for you to reach out and try to pet it.

Ocassionally America wondered what might have happened to make Romano so guarded. Whatever it was, he could fix it, he was sure. He was a hero, after all! With a little time and patience, he could do anything!

So with thoughts of Romano to sustain him, how could a little work possibly get him down?

* * *

Romano called him Wednesday evening to let him know that the reservations had been made, and when he was expected to arrive ("And don't you dare be late, bastard! I'm doing this for your sake, you know! I'll leave without you if you are!"), adding that he'd invited Feliciano and Germany along as well ("but Germany's paying for their half, so don't worry about those bastards."), and reminding him again what time he was expected ("You're driving, just so you know. The potato-bastard's driving my stupid brother, though." -which made America wonder how Romano'd planned to leave without him, but Romano'd hung up before he could ask, after a final "You'd better not be late!"). America thought that was a bit excessive, really. He was perfectly capable of being on time when he wanted to. Okay, so he was late to world meetings sometimes, but that was because they were _boring_.

He resolved to get there early, both to appease Romano and, hopefully, to squeeze in some extra time getting to know the Italian nation. He was determined to become good friends with Romano.

America's smile for the rest of the night blinded everyone who saw it.

It occurred to him the next morning that he should really bring a gift along. That was polite, right? You were supposed to bring a gift to your host. But what to bring? Traditionally it was wine or flowers, but...well, what he knew about wine was less than what he knew about architecture (and besides, he was technically underage). If he showed up at Romano's place with flowers, he was pretty sure Romano would slam the door in his face, possibly after slamming the flowers in his face first. What sort of gift would be appropriate? He'd like to get Romano something he could use (and maybe something that would remind him of America, too). Something to facilitate their friendship.

After a little brain storming, inspiration struck. Yes. _Yes. _It was perfect. It was awesome. He was a _genius_. And best of all, Romano would be able to use it everytime they hung out together, and would _definitely_ remember America whenever he did. It'd have to be custom-made, which would be tough to get it done in time, but if he pulled in a few favours...he made some quick calls, and set everything up. It'd be close, but he was sure his _awesomely perfect_ gift would be ready to pick up just before he left for Romano's place.

The next couple of days passed in a blur, and he was so excited that he forewent sleep entirely to focus on work. He managed to finish everything early Saturday morning, signing off the last report with a flourish.

After which he promptly passed out on his desk.

He awoke a few hours later, with a pen stuck to his forehead, facedown in a puddle of drool. Checking his watch, he realized that he had just enough time to get in a quick shower, and swing by the workshop to pick up his gift before he left for Romano's. If he timed it right, he should get there almost an hour early. He peeled the pen off his forehead with a grin, and headed out.

* * *

When the door swung open just as he raised his hand to knock, he briefly wondered if Romano was psychic. As soon as he saw the Italian nation, though, he sincerely hoped not, _because holy hamburgers Romano was _**gorgeous**. His eyes were_ amazing_, and his neck went on _forever_, and since when were Romano's eyes flecked with gold? Huh, he hadn't noticed that before. How could he have missed it? America hoped his mouth wasn't hanging open, because that would be extremely unheroic.

But seriously:_ Wow._

He'd finally recovered somewhat from his stunned state, and managed to greet Romano without stuttering or making an idiot of himself (he hoped). Except Romano hadn't responded, and the silence was making him nervous. Maybe he'd been too obvious with the staring? Had he creeped Romano out?

Then Romano had yanked him inside, and alot of stuff had happened that he didn't entirely follow (partly because he was trying hard not to stare at Romano, whose eyes were _intense_ when he was pissed), but apparently there was something wrong with his clothes. Which he didn't quite get, 'cause he'd been wearing this outfit for _years_, almost a century, really, and it'd never been a problem before, but if it made Romano happy then he was willing to go along with whatever was going on. He let the smaller nation manhandle him down the front steps and over to his motorcycle, growling at him all the way.

It was a good thing he'd come early, he decided. Hopefully it gave him plenty of time to make up for whatever he'd done to upset Romano, and get their budding friendship back on the right track. _'You can do it, America!' _he psyched himself_, 'You're the hero, remember? Now get it together and do your hero thing!'_

Yep, he assured himself, he and Romano were going to be _very_ good friends_._

* * *

_AN: Yes, America. Good friends. Uh-huh. I wonder if he's even really noticed that Germany and Feliciano were there, too?_

_I think this is probably the weakest chapter, structurally, but I felt it was important to clarify America's side of things. _

_Next chapter: Fashion! Realizations! Altercations! Passion!...or maybe just fashion. Yeah._


	7. The First Gift

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia or related characters. **

_AN: um._

_I've not slept in a couple days, really (thanks to a hectic work schedule), so if there are any mistakes, or if this sucks, please, please tell me. I went through it a few times, but my brain is congee at the moment._

* * *

Upon reaching the motorcycle, America stopped and turned around. "So, where are we going?"

"To get you some decent clothes, idiot."

"I got that part," America said, undaunted. "But, where are we going to go to buy them? I'm going to need directions to get there, right?"

Romano pursed his lips, arms crossed. "I-I know that, moron! Just, get on the bike. I'll give you directions while we drive."

"Haha, alrighty then. But first, I've got something for you." America said, reaching into the motorcycle's storage compartment and pulling out a package, which he held out to Romano. Romano regarded it warily.

"...what is it?"

"It's a gift." explained America patiently. "For you. I thought I should get something to thank you, for, well, you know."

Romano continued to stare at the package for a minute, glancing up at America with an unreadable expression before slowly reaching out to take it from his outstretched hand. He held it cautiously, as if he wasn't sure what to do with it.

"I hope you like it," America said, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "I wasn't sure what to get you, but, I thought about it for a while and, well, it seemed like a good idea. It's custom-made," he added, aware that he was starting to ramble. "I had to call in some favours to get it made in time, but they did a really good job." He rocked a little on the balls of his feet. Romano was just holding the package, looking at it with an expression America still couldn't quite decipher. "Um." America bit his lip. "Are you going to open it?"

Romano looked up at him, and blinked once, slowly, before returning his attention to what he held, carefully peeling back the wrapping and gingerly raising the lid with a fingertip, almost as though he was afraid it might explode if he handled it too roughly. After a moment of waiting, he pulled the lid off and placed it aside. Every movement was slow and deliberate, like he was disarming a bomb instead of unwrapping a present.

Romano stared, stunned and disbelieving, at the object which lay nestled inside. He was almost scared to take it out. Part of him wasn't entirely sure this was real. When was the last time anyone had given him anything? He couldn't remember (sure, Spain brought tomatoes sometimes, but that totally didn't count). Okay, he and Feliciano recieved presents for their birthday, or gifts from nations they had diplomatic relations with, but those were for _Italy_, not for him, _personally_. He couldn't recall a single instance where someone had given him a gift that was meant solely for him, _Romano_. Something that he didn't have to share with Feliciano, or that didn't come with political expectations.

He was a little afraid this was some sort of... hallucination, that if he reached into that package and touched whatever was inside, it'd disappear and he'd have been imagining it all. If he didn't touch it, though, then it wouldn't disappear, and then he could hold on to this moment.

It didn't really matter what it _was_. It was for _him_, and that was enough.

America fidgeted a little as he waited for Romano to take out his gift. He was dying to know what the Italian thought of it. But long minutes passed, and Romano wasn't taking it out, but instead just standing there, gripping the package tightly in both hands, unmoving.

America frowned. Was it him, or did Romano look almost...scared?

Maybe he thought it was something dangerous? Stepping forward, he reached out to take it out himself, so he could show Romano that it was safe, and was surprised when Romano shied back, clutching it tightly to his chest, eyes wide. America stepped back quickly, holding up both hands to show he meant no harm. "Woah, hey there."

Romano blinked rapidly a couple of times, then flushed and looked away. "S-sorry, I..."

America chuckled, dropping his hands. "No worries, I didn't mean to startle you. You just...seemed a little out of it, there. You can take it out, you know. It's not dangerous, I promise."

Romano's hands tightened around the package. "I, I didn't think it was." He looked down at the object held tightly in his arms. "Do I have to take it out now? C-cant I open it later?"

"Well," America answered slowly, "you're kind of going to need it. Before we leave, actually."

"O-oh." he hesitated slightly, and slowly reached one hand into the package. Questing fingerips brushed against something smooth, roundish, hard, and still slightly warm from the heat of the motorcycle engine. Something inside him relaxed when it remained solid under his fingertips. "This is really for me, right? Not to share with Feliciano, or anyone else? Just me?" the words escaped him quickly, before he could stop them.

"Yep! Just you." America reassured, slightly mystified by the question. "In fact- well, take it out and you'll see."

Romano's fingers searched the smooth, unyielding surface until they found some sort of lip underneath it that he could grasp, and pulled the object out.

He stared blankly at what he held in his hand. America had gotten him a...motorcycle helmet? He tilted it this way and that, and yes, it was definitely a motorcyle helmet. It was sleek and shiny and black, and surprisingly stylish, but still a motorcycle helmet. He let the empty packaging drop to hold it in both hands, and looked up at America, vaguely confused. "You got me a motorcycle helmet?"

"Yep!" America beamed excitedly, "but, it's not just any helmet!" he added, raising one finger. "I had it specially made! It's scratch resistant, bulletproof, waterproof, and vented so the faceshield won't fog up and it'll stay cool. I had it customized especially for you, too! Like, this part here," he pointed to the front, and after giving America an odd look, Romano looked down to see _'Romano' _inscribed in flowing gold script above the faceshield _(_huh, how had he missed that?), "and, check the back." He obediently turned the helmet around to examine the back. There, a few inches above the base, was a circle of tiny, bright red tomatoes. Inside the circle was his nation's flag, no more than two inches across, and superimposed with a golden capital '**R**'. He traced it with his fingers, and blinked.

It was...kind of cute, really.

Weird, but cute.

"You forgot one thing, jackass." he said, as he lifted the helmet with one hand, shifting his weight to his hip and fixing America with a pointed look. "I don't have a motorcyle."

America laughed. "I know! But I do," he answered, grinning. "This way you can wear it everytime we go out. And I won't have to worry about your safety!"

Romano could feel his ears burning red. "Cheh, and who says I'll be going anywhere with you, bastard?" he challenged.

"I do." America flashed him a blinding smile, before donning his own helmet. "Now put that on, we have to find me some clothes, right?"

"You are so weird." Romano mumbled as he slid on his new helmet (partly to hide his blush, which he could feel creeping down his neck). It was surprisingly comfortable.

"It looks good!" America flashed him a thumbs up from where he sat astride his 'bike, starting it up with a roar. "C'mon, get on and we'll go." Romano slid behind him, wrapping his arms loosely around his middle. "Oh." came America's voice in his ear, making him start in surprise, arms tightening reflexively around the other nation."I forgot to mention it, but there's also a speaker system built into these helmets, too, so we can talk without having to shout over the engine. So you can give me directions through your helmet, instead of having to use gestures and stuff!"

Huh, thought Romano. "How do I use it, bastard? Is there a button or something I have to push?" he asked, realizing as he did so the answer to his question.

"Nope," came America's voice again. "Just say something, and it'll pick it up."

"I figured out that much, jerk!" Romano muttered, slightly embarrassed. America just laughed as they took off.

* * *

_AN: Technically it's fashion, right? I didn't entirely lie, right? Er._

_The chapter title is reference to a quote by Marge Pierce. You'll have to look it up for yourself, muahaha._

_Don'__t worry though, Romano *will* dress up America. Soon. _


	8. An American in Italy

**Disc: I don't own Hetalia.**

_I'd intended for this part of the story to be finished in one chapter. Instead, it's expanded into three, so far. Which is a lot of shopping, man. This not-date is going to take forever. _

* * *

The drive is uneventful. Romano doesn't speak, except when necessary to give directions. He's too preoccupied with trying to deny that his face is still burning under his helmet for reasons unrelated to heat, or that the fluttering in his stomach and the odd flips his heart is doing isn't caused by America's driving. The way America keeps making him feel like he actually gives a damn about Romano is disconcerting. It's an unfamiliar feeling, and it's confusing the hell out of him. America is silent as well, focusing on driving safely (and trying not to be distracted by Romano's arms around his middle, or the heat of the smaller nation's body radiating against his back).

"Pull up here." Romano finally says, and America obediently stops where indicated. He leaves his helmet and gloves with his motorcycle, and after some persuasion, convinces a reluctant Romano to leave his helmet behind as well. He agrees on the condition that America leave his jacket behind, which he does with surprisingly minimal pouting.

"So what is this place?" America questions, as he follows Romano to the unexpectedly nondescript building they've arrived at. It's dull, built of grey and brown stone, and there are no signs or displays outside, no clothes in the surprisingly small windows- in short, nothing to indicate that it's even a business. It almost appears abandoned, and America wonders nervously if maybe he pissed Romano off more than he'd thought, and the small Italian was bringing him somewhere out-of-the-way where no-one would hear him scream...but, Romano wanted to teach him about Italian food, right? And the Italys (Italii? Italuses?) took food-related matters very seriously, so he wouldn't hurt America until _after_ dinner, at least. So he was probably safe, for now. Until after dessert, anyway.

At least he'd die well-fed.

"This," the small Italian announces gravely (oblivious to America's internal ramblings), flinging open the door, "is _Nino's_." With that unilluminating statement, he steps inside.

'_Nino's_' is much more impressive inside than out. The interior is tastefully decorated in warm reds and creams, and the lighting is bright without being harsh, suffusing the room with a welcoming glow. There are a few displays here and there, small glass cases containing accessories such as cufflinks, pocket handkerchiefs, or tie clips. One wall is lined with racks of ties. A small table occupies the center of the room, surrounded by a couch and several comfortable-looking chairs.

"Lovino!" an elderly Italian man calls out, arms flung wide in welcome, as they cross the threshold.

"Ah! _Nino._" Romano responds in kind. The man approaches, speaking rapidly.

"Ah~, Lovino, Lovino, _Lovino~_!" he cries joyfully, gathering the half-nation in an embrace, kissing his cheeks. "it is good to see you! And look at you," he holds Romano out at arm's length, "So handsome! I told you the double-collar was the right choice for you, you have _such_ bone structure. And you brought a friend!" he exclaims delightedly, catching sight of America. "I must call Amata, she will want to see this. _AMATA!_" he hollers over his shoulder, the volume making both the nations wince, "_COME AND SEE WHO'S HERE!_"

"Nino." says Romano, who's suffered all this with a grace that surprises America.

"She will be _thrilled_ to see you." The other man effuses.

"_Who is it?_" A feminine voice yells from another room.

"_LOVINO'S COME! AND HE'S BROUGHT A FRIEND!_"

"Nino." says Romano, trying again to get the man's attention.

A joyful cry, _"Oh!" _and an older woman enters the room, face shining. She claps her hands together as soon as she sees Romano in her husband's arms. "Oh, Lovino!" she crosses to throw her own arms around him, beaming, "And look at you, how handsome you are~!" she coos, taking his face in her hands. "Such a _beautiful_ boy. But so scrawny, all skin and bones! You need to eat more." she catches sight of America, who is standing off to the side watching all this with fascination, grinning ear-to-ear. "And you must be his friend!" she crosses to America, taking his face, as well, into her hands. "So _tall_, and handsome, too! But skinny," she frowns. "You both sit, sit! I'll make you something nice to eat."

"_Amata_." Romano interrupts firmly, face in his palm. _"Nino. _We can't stay. We're here on business."

"Ah~, young people today, always rushing around. It's not good for you, you should learn to take things easy sometimes. Enjoy your youth while you can!" Amata chides, pinching America's cheeks. "Especially when you're with such a charming young man!"

"Now, Amata," Nino interjects, waving her off, "If the boy says he can't stay, then he can't stay. You can feed them another time. What can we do for you today, Lovino?" he asks, turning to Romano.

"It's kind of an emergency." Romano explains. "We have reservations this evening, and this idiot," he gestures to America, "needs something to wear. Since I don't have anything that would fit him, we came to you."

The older couple turn to frown at America. "Dinner with such a lovely young man, and this is what you wear?" Amata scolds, plucking at his uniform shirt. Nino clucks his tongue in disapproval, shaking his head.

"American." Romano says simply, rolling his eyes.

"Ahhh." they say in understanding. America shifts and rubs his neck, grin turning sheepish.

"Well," Nino says, stepping forward to look America over, stroking his chin thoughtfully."It's good you've come to me. He's a big boy, but I have some things in the back you can look through. Come."

He leads them into a backroom, where he pulls out several racks of menswear. "There. Anything on these racks can be made to fit," he beams. "You look through these, find what you like, and bring it to me. I'll go now and make preparations. Just call me when you're ready." With a wink, he leaves them to it.

"Thanks!" America calls after him, and turns to see Romano already rifling through the racks, examining suits. The half-nation pulls suit after suit out, testing the material, running his hands over them as he checks them for...America isn't sure what, really, they all look the same to him. Occasionally Romano nods, satisfied with something he's found, or frowns, brow furrowed, ultimately rejecting first this one, then that, replacing them on the racks to pull out others. After watching for a while, America decides to ask something he's been wondering about since he arrived at Romano's place.

"Hey, Romano?"

"Hm?" the other replies absently, preoccupied with his search.

"Um, I don't understand why I need a new suit." he confesses. "Not that I'm complaining!" he clarifies quickly when Romano scowls, "I really don't mind, but...I'm curious why what I wear or don't wear is so important. It doesn't really matter much where I'm from- well, it does a bit, sometimes, but- I wear this all the time and it's never been a problem, before. But, you and everyone else seems upset, and I'd like to understand what I did wrong."

Romano glances sidelong at him, and seeing the confused but hopeful look, gives in with a sigh. "It's true in your country nobody cares much what you wear. But in Italy," he says, stroking a charcoal sleeve consideringly, "the first thing anyone notices about you is how you dress, how you present yourself. What you wear, how you wear it, is very important."

"Here, your clothes are as much a part of who you are as your face, your body. And like your body," he adds, pulling out a dark suit (indigo or black, America can't tell) and lifting it up, head canted, "it has a language. What it's made of, how it's cut," (he indicates different parts of the suit he's holding to illustrate his explanation, but it's all Greek to the taller nation), "color, flow, how you coordinate, how you accessorize, it all speaks volumes- your social status, background, personality, how you feel about those you're with," he continues, placing the suit back on the rack. "all these things and more an Italian can read from your clothes."

"That seems kind of...shallow." America frowns, and Romano's face darkens.

"It may seem shallow to you," he grinds out, pushing hangers aside with unnecessary force, shoulders tense, "but here, in _Italy_, it's just another form of communication. A way to show that you have respect for those around you."

"Oh." America's brows furrow. "So, what do my clothes say?"

The Italian's jaw clenches for a second, and he exhales deeply through his nose. "Nothing good." he answers dryly. "Leave it at that."

"...Okay." he's quiet for a moment, before admitting, "I still don't really understand," causing the other to roll his eyes, unsurprised, "but, I'm sorry I upset you. And if it makes you happy, I'll wear anything you want me to, Romano. 'Cause your opinion is important to me." he finishes earnestly.

"O-of, course it is, bastard. And don't you forget it."

"Haha, of course not! A hero never forgets!"

Romano has to snort at that, rolling his eyes once more. How can one person drive him so many different kinds of nuts? "Hold that." he orders, thrusting a dark suit into the blond's arms.

'''Kay." they move over to a rack of formal shirts, where the Italian resumes his search.

"Hey, Romano?"

"...What now?"

"You said the way you dress shows how you feel about the people you're with, right?"

"It's a bit more complicated than that, but sure, close enough."

"So..." the American ponders, lips quirking. "You look pretty amazing." (and Romano freezes, hands tightening around the shirt in his hands), "Does that mean you dressed up for me?"

He stumbles back a bit when a dark teal button-up hits him in the face.

"_Chigi_! Bastard! Who would dress up for you, jackass? I just, haven't done laundry in a while, ok? This was the only thing that was clean!" he yells, cheeks darkening.

"Haha, okay, Romano, whatever you say." America grins, pulling the shirt off his head.

"We're done here." Romano growls, dragging him back into the main room. "Let's go get you fitted. And _don't. say. anything."_

__

_

* * *

_

The Italian couple watches in amusement as the still-blushing Italian emerges hauling a ridiculously beaming American behind him. He stomps over to the tie rack, angrily plucking one from the array, and snatches a pair of cufflinks from a display, turning to slam both violently into the pile of clothes in America's arms, and shoves the tall blond at Nino. "_There_."

The elderly man chuckles. "I take it you're ready for fitting?"

"I guess so." America agrees, looking down at the pile in his arms."Will it hurt?"

"Not at all," Nino laughs, and waves him to follow. "You just follow me. I'll take good care of you."

"'Kay!" is his cheerful response, and he looks over his shoulder as he goes. "See you soon, Romano!"

"Cheh." Romano huffs, arms crossed and staring resolutely away. Amata smiles at him knowingly.

"Come," she says, waving him over to the table already set with cups, a carafe of coffee, and a plate of chocolate-dipped biscotti. "let's have some coffee and catch up while we wait."

He sighs deeply, running a hand through his hair. He could do with some coffee right now. "Alright." He offers her an almost-smile. "That sounds good."

"So," she says, as they sit. "An _American_." Her eyes sparkle mischieviously.

"I-it's not what you think." he defends, face coloring slightly."He's just a business partner. We work together, sometimes."

"Oh, so this is a business dinner?" she asks, pouring out the coffee.

"Well, no." he admits reluctantly, "Not exactly. But, well," he looks down at his sleeve, idly twisting a cufflink, "All he eats is fast food. Hamburgers," he explains, and she makes a face."So, well, I thought I should show him what real food is. 'Cause, you know..." he trails off, awkwardly.

"I understand." Amata smiles warmly, placing a hand on his arm. "My Nino used to be the same way. Oh yes," she assures when he looks up, surprised. "When I first met him, he was living off of balogna sandwiches and coffee." They both wrinkle their noses in distaste. "Naturally, I was_ horrified_. I had to save the poor man from himself." she smiles wider, patting his arm and handing him a cup. "Some men need someone to take care of them. Your American is lucky you're looking out for him."

"Who's looking out for that bastard?" Romano scoffs, taking it with a nod of thanks. "It's just disgusting watching him stuff his face with that junk, that's all. And he's not mine."

"Of course." she agrees with a fond smile, handing him a plate of biscotti. "A word of advice from an old woman? Next time, you cook for him. A restaurant dinner is good," she reassures with a wave of the hand when he frowns, "but nothing speaks to the heart quite so clearly as a meal made with your own hands."

"I'm not cooking for that idiot." he scowls into his coffee."And there won't be a '_next time_'."

"Oh? You do not like him, this American who is not yours?" she asks, knowingly.

"Of course I don't! Well," he amends, "I don't hate him, but..." he glances up, then looks away. "He's so _annoying_. He's always smiling, and obnoxiously happy, and he's even stupider than _Feliciano._" he hesitates, "Okay, maybe not _that_ stupid, but still." He puts his cup down to wave both hands in emphasis. "And he's _loud_, and he eats terribly, and he can't dress himself properly, and really, he's just _completely _clueless."

"Oh, my."

"He's already decided that we're going to hang out again sometime, without even asking. His manners are terrible, and he can't read the atmosphere _at all_." he complains, warming to his subject, "He drags me along with him, and I get pulled into his pace. And then he turns around and says or does something that-" he gestures wildly, searching for words, "just...throws me off-balance, and I don't know how I'm supposed to react! It-, he's confusing the hell out of me." he finishes, frustrated.

"That sounds terrible." she says sympathetically, hiding a smile behind her cup.

"Right?" he gestures emphatically.

"No redeeming qualities at all, then?"

"Not really. Well..." Romano looks down, fidgeting with his cuff again. "He can be kind of thoughtful, I guess. Sometimes. And he works hard... and the way he tries to be a hero all the time is kind of...cute, maybe. Annoying as _hell_, but cute."

"Ah." she hums. "Well, I can see why you wouldn't want him around, then. If he's as bad as all that."

"Y-yeah." he nods, a little uncertainly. They sit in comfortable, reflective silence, sipping coffee, lost in their own thoughts.

"Though, it's kind of... nice, that he listens to me. A little." he confesses quietly after a while. "And, well, he's been rediculously excited, about tonight." he toys with his now-empty coffee cup for a moment, and places it back on the table, adding, "He's still irritating, though."

"Well," she says after a moment, as she stands to begin clearing the table, "He'll be out soon, all dressed up and ready, and you can take him to dinner and teach him about our food, and then after tonight, you won't have to deal with him again." she pats his arm, kindly. "If you don't want to."

"Yeah." he agrees, and the churning in his middle isn't because he's depressed thinking about that, dammit, it's just that he's been drinking coffee on an empty stomach, that's all.

"But I wonder," Amata muses, clearing up the last of the cups, "If he'll be so easy to get rid of? It seems to me he's taken an interest in you, this American. And he doesn't strike me as the type to give up so easily. That is, if he's as irritating and clueless as you say."

"That's... true." he says, irritated at the warm feeling that spreads through him."The idiot never knows when to give up."

"Well then," she winks at him, "It seems you'll have your work cut out for you."

A reluctant half-smile tugs at Romano's lips. "Yeah, I guess so."

* * *

_AN: __I haven't forgotten you. My isp went down for a few days for 'maintanence' (welcome to the boondocks). Did you know that 3+ days without internet can drive you nuts? It's true! _


	9. An Eye for Beauty

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

_America gets a little help, a new suit, and an insider's perspective. _

_I was going to wait a little longer to post this, but I'm having trouble working on the next chapter when I'm sitting on this one. Odd, but OK._

* * *

"I really appreciate this." America said, as he followed Nino into the workroom. "I don't really know much about suits and stuff."

Nino laughed, "Don't worry, you're in very good hands. The best." he gestured exaggeratedly. Taking the tie and cufflinks from the nation's arms, he nodded to a screen set up in the corner of the room. "You can change behind there, and then come over and stand up here." he directed, indicating a small dias set up in the middle of the floor. America went behind the screen, dressing quickly.

When he emerged, Nino gave a low whistle. "Well," he grinned, eyebrows raised, "Lovino always did have an eye for beautiful things."

"It looks alright, then?" America asked, looking down at himself.

Laughing again, he nodded. "It's a start. Now, to make it perfect." he winked, gesturing to the dias. "Come on, let's get you measured."

America stepped up, and the tailor set to work, stretching the tape across his shoulders.

"You must be a good friend to Lovino, if he brought you here." he said conversationally, marking the measurements as he went."Raise your arms."

"I don't know about that," America confessed."I'm not sure he likes me much, yet. But, I'm working on it."

"Ah, is that so?" The elderly Italian smiled, amused. "Well, our Lovino doesn't always say what he means. His life has not been an easy one, I think. But he has a good heart." he glanced up. "But I think you know this already, yes?" America nodded, listening attentively. "Lovino is very kind to this old couple. He and his brother, Feliciano, they have always been so good to us. Looked after us. They look after many families, around here." he stepped back. "The jacket is done, take it off so I can do the shirt."

Putting the jacket aside, he went on."But some things, they cannot be easily changed. It is not his fault, of course. How could it be? People, they do what they will. Lift your arms." He worked quickly as he talked, measuring and pinning with practiced hands. "Lovino, especially, takes it hard, I think. He feels responsible for many things, many people. It is a difficult thing, to be the elder brother. So much rests on your shoulders. It is good to see that he is opening up."

"I hope so," America said. "I'd really like to get to know him better. I seem to be making a lot of mistakes, though. Like," he continued, gesturing at himself, "this suit thing. I know I did something wrong, but I'm not sure what. He tried to explain when I asked, but I still don't quite get it."

Nino looked up from where he knelt, pinning the cuffs of the slacks, and nodded understandingly. "You are an American." he said. "It is not surprising that you don't know." Seeing that America was listening, he continued. "You see what Lovino is wearing, tonight?"

"Um," he answered, brows furrowed, "I didn't really notice the clothes. I mean, I noticed that he looks really good, but..."

Nino chuckled. "That suit, I made for him. The shirt, too. Of all the suits I have made for him, it is my favourite. Each piece- the jacket, the slacks, the shirt- took over 60 hours to make. We discussed the material, what they should be made of. What colors would suit him. We decided on the cut, the movement, considered what he wanted each peice to say, the impression he wanted to make. He had to come in for measurements, two, three times, while they were being constructed."

"I made that suit for him, oh, many years ago. This is the first time he has worn it. You see?" He looked up into America's puzzled expression. Smiling kindly, he reached up to pat his knee. "It's alright. You'll understand soon enough." He stood. "Ok, we're finished with the measurements. Take it off, and I'll make the adjustments."

America obliged, and Nino set to work. America sat, chin in hand, as the old tailor measured and cut, tucked and folded, pinned and sewed. He worked swiftly, with a skill that was fascinating to watch. "This is really interesting." America commented."I mean, I have no clue what you're doing there, but I can tell you're really good at it."

Nino laughed. "Like many things, it can be confusing if you aren't familiar with it." He shot a knowing glance at the blond."You may not know from clothes," he said, slyly, "but I think perhaps you have an eye for _other_ beautiful things, yes?"

America's eyes slid to the door which separated them from the others, and he blushed. Nino laughed.

"You come back another time, and I will make you other suits, yes? Italian suits, made just for you. Lovino won't be able to take his eyes off of you."

America hesitated. "I don't know...it's nice of you to offer, but...I'm not sure that would work."

Nino smiled, like he knew something America did not. "Perhaps, perhaps not." he conceded."You wear this suit, and see what you think after tonight."

"Haha, alright."America grinned.

Finally Nino declared the suit finished. America dressed behind the screen, complete with tie this time, and came out for appraisal.

"All good?" Nino looked him over, and nodded in approval. Then he frowned, seeing that America was standing in his socks.

"Hm...you need shoes." he rubbed his chin pensively, then brightened. He went over to a closet, digging inside for something. "Aha! You're in luck." He held up a box, beaming. "I bought these for my nephew, for his naming day. He's about your size. But I think they would look better on you."

"I can't take your nephew's shoes." America protested.

Nino waved a hand dismissively. "Pah. Of course you can. I'll buy him something else. He has many shoes. You, I think, need them more." When America still looked doubtful, he added, "Think of them as a gift, and humor an old man. A suit is nothing without the shoes. You want to impress Lovino, yes? These will help."

"Well...okay." America agreed after a moment's consideration. He took the box with a grateful smile. "Thank you, Nino. This means alot."

The elderly Italian waved it off again. "Pah, don't worry about it. To do this right, it is a small thing."

America slipped the shoes on, and straightened, arms spread. "So, what do you think? Am I saying the right things?" he asked, anxiously.

Nino smiled broadly. "Oh, I think he will get the message." he assured, eyes twinkling.

* * *

_AN: To quote Wodehouse: "There is no time, sir, at which ties do not matter."_

_I didn't notice it at first, but FFnet keeps mucking up my format. And eating punctuation. And running off with parts of sentences. I tried to find all the missing bits, but if you see any partial sentences or things that don't make sense, let me know._


	10. Made to Order

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia!**

_This is up a lot later than I would have liked. Since work has been keeping me beyond busy, I haven't been able to work on this. Since I didn't want to keep you waiting much longer, I decided to split this chapter up and post what I had. I haven't had the chance to refine it, so I apologize for the first-draft quality. Hope it satisfies, regardless!_

* * *

The workroom door swings open, and Nino struts in, face beaming. "Wait until you see this," he crows. "Come on, come in!" he calls, and, looking slightly nervous, America enters.

And Romano's mouth goes dry.

When Romano had been looking through the suits, he'd checked each carefully, trying to envision how each one would look on America as he did so. First, charcoal- always a good color, dignified and serious, and wouldn't look that bad at all. Common, though, and a bit austere for a dinner out. Then indigo, which, hmm...would be very nice with America's fair skin and hair, but again, everyone wore it at one time or another. The dark blue screamed 'businessman' (perhaps he could convince the taller nation to wear it to a world meeting sometime).

Right now, though, he was looking for something a little more...unusual. Something striking and maybe a little bit flashy, to match the idiot's personality.

Then his fingers closed around a pinstriped sleeve in chocolate, and he'd been struck by the impulse to see America in pinstripes. He wasn't sure why, actually, he'd just always held a soft spot for the look. He'd pulled it out, considering. The blond's most extraordinary feature was his bright blue eyes, not uncommon where he came from, but relatively exotic in Italy. This rich shade of chocolate brown would emphasize the blue quite effectively. Excellent.

Next, the shirt. A cool color, to compliment the warm tones of the suit. A darker shade, though, to prevent overshadowing the suit, and washing out that fair skin. _Aha_, this dark teal was ideal; it would balance out the chocolate, and accentuate the blond's golden hair.

A saffron tie and pocket handkerchief would tie it all together nicely, he decided.

He'd been pretty confident in his choices, despite the last-minute aspect. Thanks to him, America might not even look half-bad.

And now here he is, _looking like __**that**_, and Romano can't breath, 'cause his throat is tight and his heart is pounding and America's looking at him with those impossibly blue eyes (_blue like endless skies and-_ he halts that train of thought right there, 'cause that's waxing way more poetic than he's is comfortable with over someone who drives him so crazy, dammit).

His gaze is drawn inexorably downward, noticing how the cut of suit reveals and accentuates broad shoulders, narrow hips and remarkably long legs, and huh, he'd always thought the American was a little bit overweight, but nope, that was definitely all muscle. Those baggy fatigues he always wore obviously did him _no_ justice.

...Maybe he wouldn't convince the other nation to wear a suit to world meetings after all. If he showed up looking like _this_, no-one would _ever_ get anything done. Yes, Romano decided, swallowing hard; for the sake of the world, he'd have to let America keep wearing his ridiculous fatigues. The idiot was distracting enough _without_ any additional assistance.

* * *

For his part, America had been pretty skeptical about all this, despite Nino's reassurances. He knew Romano and Nino said how you dressed was important, and he tried to understand, really he did, but...they were just _clothes_, right? What difference could they possibly make?

Right now, though, America decides it doesn't matter whether he understands or not. He swears to buy a _thousand_ suits if it keeps Romano looking at him like he is now. A warm, bubbly feeling wells up inside him.

"So," he asked, tilting his head and bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, "Is it okay?"

"...ngh." Romano was having difficulty getting the words out, possibly because his heart seemed to have relocated itself to his throat.

"Er, what?" America leaned in to check if Romano was alright. Then his brow furrowed slightly, and, "Oh, hey." he reached out, brushing over the corner of Romano's mouth with his thumb.

Romano's eyes widened, and he recoiled, slapping the offending hand away. "W-what the hell do you think you're doing, bastard?"

"You had some...chocolate or something, there." America explained, licking the thumb in question. "Hm, yep, chocolate."

"J-just tell me next time, jerk! I can do it myself!" the Italian fumed, heart pounding furiously (inwardly cursing chocolate biscotti for their crumbly deliciousness).

"Haha, sorry. Though," he added, pouting slightly, "no fair you had chocolate without me."

"There's some more here, if you want." Amata called from where she sat, offering the plate with an amused smile. America brightened, and crossed to take one.

"Yay~! Thank you!"

"H-hey! Don't eat that, idiot, you'll ruin your appetite!" Romano ordered.

America turned to raise an incredulous eyebrow at him, mouth already full. "I don't think that's possible." he contradicted, popping the last half of the chocolate-covered treat into his mouth.

"Cheh, of course- I forgot you have a black hole for a stomach."

"Haha, yep." America grinned proudly.

"That's not a compliment, moron!"

America opened his mouth to reply, but an exclamation from Nino cut him off.

"Oh!" they turn to look at the elderly man, who was searching his pockets. He pulled out a small box, lifting it so they can see. "Your cufflinks! I forgot to return them to you when the suit was finished." he held them out to America, who took them with a slightly perplexed frown.

"I have no idea what those are for. How do I put them on?" he asked.

"They go on your shirt cuffs, to hold them together." Nino explained, pinching his own cuffs in demonstration.

"Oh, like buttons?" he opened the box. "These are...really weird buttons."

"Tch! Give those here, biscuit-brain." Romano scoffed, stalking over and swiping the box. Emptying the contents into one hand, he grabbed the taller nation's wrist, slipping an accessory into place. "You're completely hopeless, dammit!" He grumbled, repeating the action on the opposite arm.

"Here, he needs the handkerchief, too." Amata spoke, from where the Italian couple was enjoying the show (Nino was surreptitiously taking pictures, which neither of the two nations noticed). She held out the square of saffron silk to Romano, who took it, and folding it quickly, jammed it into America's breast pocket.

"There." he stepped back and crossed his arms, surveying his handiwork with a satisfied huff. "Now you're perfect."

The taller nation blinked, a slow smile spreading across his face. "You think I'm perfect?"

"W-who would, moron? I, I was talking about the suit, of course! N-not _you_, i-idiot!"

"They _are_ pretty nice. I still think clothes are just clothes, but these are pretty awesome clothes." America admitted, then added, "But I think you're pretty perfect no matter what you're wear- " and promptly ducked, narrowly avoiding the (now empty) box of cufflinks flung at his head. Fuming, embarrassed and flustered, the half-nation pointed at him warningly.

"Chigi! _S-shut up! _I hate you! Bastard!_" _Romano stormed over to the door, flinging it open. "I'm leaving! Don't follow me, jerk!" he growled over his shoulder.

"'Kay, let me just settle up with Nino and I'll be right there!" America called after him, and turned to the elderly tailor. "So..." he raised an eyebrow conspiratorially, "You mentioned something about Italian suits?"

"Already I have your measurements, so I will prepare samples for you," Nino grinned, handing the blond his card. "You call when you are ready, we'll meet to discuss the details."

America took it, pocketing it with a matching grin "Awesome, thanks!" He blushed in surprise when Amata leaned over to press a kiss his cheek.

"For luck." she winked, patting his shoulder.

"I might need all I can get," he confessed with a slightly bashful smile. "I better hurry though. I'm really glad I met you two," he added, waving as he headed after Romano, "Thanks again for everything, I'll see you soon!"

"Take care! Give Lovino our love!" they called back, waving farewell.

"Ah~," Nino sighed beatifically, wrapping an arm around his wife as the door closed behind their guest. "Young love."

* * *

_Goodbye boys! Have fun storming the castle!_

_AN: Looks like Romano's starting to acknowledge his feelings, even if he's not quite ready to accept them yet. Luckily America isn't the type to dissuade easily._


	11. Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. (Probably for the best).**

_I think Romano needs a hug. Any volunteers? _

_Hoping this chapter isn't too confusing. If you have any questions, let me know and I'll try and clear things up._

* * *

Romano stomps his way down the pavement to where they're parked, internally in turmoil. He's trembling, because he's angry and flustered and confused, but more than anything else he's...scared. This whole situation is starting to worry him.

For all his bluster, the half-nation knows very well that no-one is ever interested in Romano for _Romano_. For Grandpa Rome's inheritance, maybe. It wasn't like his country had anything else to offer- South Italy had always been weak and poverty-stricken. As far as countries go it's relatively undeveloped. It's prone to volcanic eruptions and earthquakes, and more recently, riddled with mafia activity.

He's well aware he doesn't have any good points, either- he's lazy, and clumsy, and irritable. He isn't talented or friendly like Feliciano, or strong like Grandpa Rome, or cheerful and easygoing like Spain. Everything he tries to do seems to fall apart.

He kicks one of the motorcycle's tires, grinding his teeth in frustration.

Hell, even Grandpa Rome had chosen Feliciano over him. Spain, too, was always trying to trade him for his little brother, or get him to act more like Feliciano (the jerk had even _proposed_ to North Italy. _Twice!_). And Feliciano preferred the potato-bastard's company over his, even though they were the _same damn country_!

None of which bothered him at all, really. He didn't need his stupid brother or Spain or any idiot friends. He was just fine on his own, dammit.

So why the hell is America here? As far as Romano could remember, his country had only ever caused troubles for the other nation, not least in the form of organized crime.

So what could America gain from associating with him? The moron was a freaking _superpower._ He could have anything, be anywhere he wanted. And anything of value South Italy had, the other nation had in spades. What could his small nation conceivably offer?

_So why the hell was he here?_

The stupid American is wreaking havoc on his emotions, and it's driving Romano nuts. He crouches, staring at his reflection in chrome plating, trying to figure out the other's motivation.

It has to be a crazy whim on America's part. There's no way he could possibly be interested in _Romano_, is there? He's got to be just...curious, or bored, or something. The taller nation's probably just killing time. Once he's had his fun, he'll move on and forget the half-nation entirely.

Which is why the way Romano's starting to respond to the other's attentions is worrying him. The feelings the American is evoking in him are dangerous. He's making the half-nation feel like he cares, like the Italian's thoughts and opinions are important to him, like...like someone actually wants to be with _Romano_, for once.

The corner of his mouth still tingles where America touched him. He scrubs the spot with the back of his hand to erase the sensation, and exhales through his nose.

It can't possibly be true, though. America's a friendly guy, he probably treats everyone this way.

He looks up with a sigh, and catches sight of America's present. Reaching up, he takes it down, turning it over in his hands. He traces the icon on the back with his fingertips.

America didn't give everyone gifts like this, as far as he knew. He was pretty sure he'd have heard about it at meetings if so. That bastard England would have said something, for sure. Or Feliciano, who was friends with practically everybody, and usually up on the latest gossip. But he'd given this to him. Had it made for him especially, even. So, that must mean something, right?

He sighs again, wrapping his arms around the helmet, holding it close to his chest. It probably didn't matter, anyway. America would lose whatever interest he had soon enough, and move on to whatever caught his attention next, leaving Romano alone again. Probably forget him entirely.

Which is fine. He's used to being on his own, dammit. He doesn't need the idiot around, messing up his life with his crazy schemes. Who cares if he remembers him or not?

(England might follow his former colony around and pick fights with him all the time to get his attention, but Romano has more pride than that, dammit. Besides, it probably wouldn't work. England and America had way more history together, even if it wasn't necessarily _good _history. It was still definitely more memorable than a couple of meals and a shopping trip.)

Even if the American keeps saying those..._things_, and acting like he does, and _looking_ at him in that way that makes part of him hope, in spite of himself.

...Where is that idiot, anyway? He should have been here by now. Though, knowing the blond, he probably got lost on his way out the door. Or distracted by some food laying on the ground.

He'd better go save America from himself. Who knows what kind of trouble he'd get into, otherwise.

As he stood to go and rescue the dimwit, Romano heard voices coming from outside the tailor's shop. Had Nino helped the stupid bastard find the way out? Figures he'd-

OH_ shit, __**no**_**- **that was definitely _not_ the tailor.

He ducked behind the motorcycle again before he could be seen. Dammit, dammit, _dammit_- what were _they_ doing here? Why now?

He sat trembling, tears welling up, heart pounding now for an entirely different reason. This wasn't good, not good at all. _Dammit, _what was he going to do now?

* * *

_AN: Just for the record, Romano's really selling himself short, here. What he says about South Italy is true in some respects, but it's hardly all there is to it. The landscape and architecture is amazing, and it's turned out tons of extremely talented leaders, musicians, craftsmen, poets, scientists, and so on over the centuries. Poor guy just has a bit of an inferiority complex, since North Italy tends to get all the attention. _

_Next chapter: I think you can hazard a guess..._


	12. Speak of the Devil

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Really.**

_Eventually we're going to get to the restaurant. America has to be starving by now. Aside from that biscotti, who knows when the last time he ate was? _

_This is unmitigated cheese, and I admit it. (/shame) I shouldn't post it yet, since I am too frickin' tired to edit it properly, but hey. _

_A lot of perspective shifting here. Try to keep up!_

* * *

Adonis ('Donny' to his friends and...associates), local _mafioso _underboss, was not having a good day. Things had not been going well lately. Profits were down, a recent string of high-profile arrests was causing unrest in the ranks, and anti-mafia sentiment was on the rise. He'd spent a harrowing day being yelled at by the Boss, who informed him in no uncertain terms to deal with both the police and lack of profits, or...well, the consequences of failure were never pretty. He'd just felt lucky to get out of there all parts intact.

And to top it all off, on the way to the restaurant for a nice evening with his girl, his car had gotten a flat tire. Which is why he was here, accompanied by his lackey Dio (he'd left his other goon to help the driver change the tire), killing time, looking to work off some steam.

But when that blond American stepped out of _Nino's_, he could tell that his fortunes were about to change. Lady Luck was smiling on him at last. Here was a prime patsy if he'd ever seen one. That somewhat flashy, expensive suit promised ripe pickings (though he had to admit, for such an obviously oblivious American, he had _very_ good taste), and that clueless face was just _begging_ for someone to come along and relieve him of his excess cash. Another rich American on holiday, most likely. Welp, Donny was always willing to make a tourist's life a little more interesting. Give 'em a taste of the culture, as it were. An _educational_ experience.

Normally, Donny would leave this sort of thing to his goons, enjoying the show from a distance. Today, however, he waved Dio to stand back, welcoming the chance to vent his frustrations. A little action would do him wonders.

He was going to pluck _this_ pigeon himself.

* * *

America had gotten all of two steps out of the door before a voice called out. "Hey there, Flash!" Curious to see who was shouting in the streets, he looked around to see a slick-looking Italian man saunter up from apparently nowhere, hands in his pockets. A much larger man stood a little ways off, watching them both.

"You look a little lost there, pal. You lookin' for somethin'? Perhaps my friend Dio here and myself can be of some assistance." Donny greeted with a little wave, and flashed a winning smile at the blond.

"It's nice of you to offer, but that's OK." the American responded with his habitual sunny smile. "I'm actually here with my friend Romano. He's waiting for me..." he looked around, noting that person in question appeared to be absent, "uh, well, he was supposed to be waiting for me right over there, actually. Huh. I wonder where he went."

"Romano? As in Lovino Vargas?" Donny couldn't believe his luck. This day just kept getting better and _better_. The elder Vargas had become increasingly difficult to handle, and the Boss had been trying to find a way to get him back under control. This bozo right here could be the leverage they'd been looking for. Whomever he was, he was rich, foreign, and if the older Vargas thought he was worth his time, he must be _someone_ important. Change of plans- this mook was coming home with him.

"Yep!" replied the blond, turning back to the Italian. "You know him?"

"Oh _yeah_, yeah! Vargas is a _good_ friend of mine. The _best._ You know, I bet I even know where he went," Donny grinned congenially, attempting to sling his arm around the tall American's shoulders, and settling for placing a guiding hand on his lower back. "You come with me, Flash, I'll take you to him. Donny will take _good_ care of you."

"Well..." The blond said doubtfully. "I don't know. I should probably wait here in case he comes back." He glanced back at the motorcycle again.

"_Trust_ me." replied Donny. "You want to find Vargas, you're going to want to come with me."

"Well, if you're sure you know where he is." America gave in with an amiable smile. "Thanks for the help."

"Anything for a friend." Donny winked, gesturing expansively, leading the idiot American along. This was just _too easy_. "C'mon Dio, let's show our new buddy here where Vargas is." He called over his shoulder. A heavy thud was his only answer, and he turned around. "..Dio?"

* * *

After his initial panic, it occurred to Romano that- wait, this was _America_, the guy who could carry around a damn _car _with _one hand_ for over an hour without breaking a sweat. The one who, according to the brow-bastard, juggled full-grown wild bulls around as a baby. The ridiculously powerful idiot with the _hero complex_. So what was he worrying about? He should just sit back and enjoy the show. Watch that evil bastard Donny and his thug get what they deserved, for once.

With a vindictive chuckle, he turned around, peering through a gap in the motorcycle's machinery to watch. _Oho_, he gloated inwardly, this was going to be _good_. Those scum-suckers had no idea what they were up against.

As he watched, though, his glee faded. Why was America being so friendly with that bastard? What was with that idiotic smile? Didn't America know what that guy was? No, dammit, that idiot probably couldn't tell mafia from muffins, outside of movies. That's alright, he assured himself. Donny and his goon would try to threaten or attack the other nation soon enough, and then America would figure it out.

Wait, what if he pulled a gun on America? The moron might be stupidly strong, but he could still be shot.

...Crap, why wasn't that idiot _doing_ anything? Hadn't anyone ever told him not to talk to strangers, dammit? Did he _want_ to get kidnaped? Romano ground his teeth in frustration and worry.

And then Donny, that filthy, no-good, rotten loser, started _touching_ America. Had his damn hands all over America's shoulders, pawing at his back. Was that asshole _flirting_ with the oblivious bastard? _What. The. Hell._

* * *

Underneath his friendly smile, America was not a happy camper. He wasn't an idiot- he knew mafia when he saw them. And even if he hadn't, this guy's smile just _screamed_ 'trouble'. The obvious goon lurking in the background did nothing to alleviate that impression.

When a quick glance 'round revealed that Romano was not to be seen, his displeasure increased. And with every word coming out of Donny's mouth, he grew angrier. By the time the _mafioso _made to lead him away, America was _pissed._

For his own sake, this guy had better_ not_ know where Romano was. He was pretty sure it was just a ploy (most likely Romano was hiding somewhere nearby), but when another quick check showed that Romano's helmet was missing, too, he had to admit that it was a possibility, however unlikely.

Well, America wasn't the hero for nothing. He itched to take care of business right here and now, but they were standing outside _Nino's_ and he didn't want to cause trouble for the couple. Besides, he couldn't risk Romano's safety, on the off-chance this guy wasn't lying. So he'd keep playing innocent, and let this sleazeball drag him back to his buddies, and they could all have a little..._talk_. If these guys _did_ have Romano, well, he'd have to show them why that was such a very, very bad idea.

Either way, these were the guys who put that haunted, guilty look on Romano's face back in the diner. And America had some things to explain to anyone who made Romano unhappy. A little lecture detailing why that was not a wise course of action; complete with bullet points and a hands-on demonstration, to make sure there was no confusion on the matter.

If Romano was hiding nearby like he suspected, then he'd probably be upset that America had left, but he'd find a way to make it up to him. He'd just have to get this over with quickly, and give the half-nation a call when he was finished. He was pretty confident he could finish this before dinnertime. Maybe Romano would even be impressed with his heroism- he might even thank him! Okay, he had to admit that it wasn't very likely, but a hero didn't do it for thanks, anyway.

And then Donny stopped and turned around, and America followed suit to see what the holdup was.

* * *

Both males gaped at the sight before them. Romano stood, flushed and furious, helmet in hand, over a prone and comatose Dio. The small Italian raised a shaking hand to point at Donny. "Y-you get away from him, you worthless bastard!" he snarled.

Donny stared for a moment, then smirked. "No, I don't think so." he said, reaching into his jacket. "You see, the Boss feels you've been kind of uppity lately. Not rememberin' your place in the order of things." he pulled out a gun, and pointed it in America's face.

"Whoa, hey there." America said, leaning back slightly, blinking cross-eyed at the barrel.

"Y'see, I was hopin' Flash here was someone important to you, somethin' we could use as leverage to get you back under control," Donny explained conversationally. "and I see that I guessed right. So this is what is gonna happen;" he continued, grin widening, "_you're_ gonna stand there and do nothin', and _I'm_ gonna take this idi-" his 'explanation' was unceremoniously cut short when Romano darted forward, slamming his helmet over the gun, and his fist into Donny's face.

Donny dropped like a rock, crumpling to the ground, gun falling from limp fingers. Romano kicked it away, stepping over the _mafioso'_s prone body to grab America by the wrist.

"_C'mon_, idiot, we gotta get out of here before they wake up." he ordered, hauling the taller nation towards the waiting motorcycle. America let himself be dragged, staring at the Italian in awe. That had been the coolest thing he'd ever seen, and he said so.

"That was the coolest thing I've ever seen." he breathed.

"Talk later, run now." Romano ordered, grabbing the American's helmet and jacket off the motorcycle and shoving them at him. "Unless you want to find out how bulletproof this helmet actually is."

"Haha, alright." America agreed, donning his helmet and pulling on his gloves. "That was a Baretta 92F S Italy, though, and your helmet can withstand a 9mm easy, so don't worry."

"...Why am I not surprised you recognized the gun." Romano muttered, slipping the worry-free helmet down over his head. Somehow, it made him feel alot safer all of a sudden.

"I have the American version, of course! Plus, he sorta shoved it right in my face." America answered, ignoring both the rhetorical nature of the statement, as well as the fact that he hadn't been meant to hear it. "Hey, c'mere." he leaned over, and to Romano's surprise, draped his bomber jacket around the Italian's shoulders.

"W-what the hell are you doing, bastard?"

"You're the hero, so you wear the hero's jacket!" America explained, as he adjusted the jacket around the smaller nation, zipping it closed.

"I can't wear this! It's too big! I'll fall off the 'bike!" he protested, slipping his arms into the sleeves. The jacket practically engulfed him, falling halfway down his thighs.

"Psshht, I won't let you fall. I'm the hero!" the other argued, starting up the motorcycle.

Romano slid behind him, bunching up the too-long sleeves so he could reach around the American's torso. "What the hell does that have to do with anything, bastard? Besides, I thought I was the hero, remember?"

"Of course! So you won't let yourself fall, either!"

"...That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard." They fell silent as they took off, one focused on driving and the other lost in his own thoughts. America's jacket was warm and unexpectedly soft, and smelled like leather and machine oil and America (a surprisingly comforting combination). The hero, huh? He exhaled shakily, sinking deeper into the jacket with a deep blush, and leaned into America's back. So this...whatever this was... probably wouldn't last, and America would probably move on and forget him pretty soon; but for right now, Romano decided to take what he could get for however long it lasted.

Besides, if today had proven anything, it was that the idiot couldn't be left to his own devices. Obviously _somebody_ had to keep the moron out of trouble, and it looked like Romano was the best candidate for the job.

(When Donny woke several hours later, it was to a massive headache, a missing gun, and a message on his cell from his girl, dumping him for standing her up. Guess Lady Luck wasn't smiling on him, after all.)

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_AN: This chapter brought to you by Hetalia strips 'Boy Who Can Do It If He Tries', 'Boss Spain Doesn't Understand', the first half of 'In Just Two Minutes You Can Grasp the Exterior of the European Economy'; and the recent bust/arrest of over 300 high-ranking mafioso in South Italy. I figured that last was cause for celebration. Go Romano, Go!_

_(And I wanted an excuse to put Romano in America's bomber. A-freakin'-dorable.) _


	13. Invisible Friends and Adrenaline Crashes

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

_This turned out to be mostly dialogue. Romano kept on talking, and talking- which I'm going to blame on the adrenaline crash._

_Also, proofreading is for sissies._

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After they were a safe distance from the scene, Romano broke the silence. "You had better not breathe a word to Feliciano about any of this, bastard."

"Aw, what? No way! I wanted to brag about how cool you were!"

"I mean it, bastard, not a word! Feliciano doesn't need to know what happened, ok?"

"But you were awesome! Why wouldn't you want him to know about it?"

"You wouldn't understand, moron- you don't have a brother."

"Wha? Yes I do!"

"_Bullshit._"

"No, really! You know, Canada? Looks just like me, but sissy? He carries a bear around all the time. He's my little brother."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"My little brother, _Canada._"

"Oh yeah, bastard? If you have a little brother, how come I've never seen him at the conferences? You'd think America's brother would be a big deal."

"You have! He attends every world meeting. He sits right next to me! You probably just didn't notice him because he's kind of invisible."

"..._Invisible._"

"Yep! Well, not all the time, but at world meetings and stuff he usually is, yeah."

"...So, you're telling me you have an invisible brother."

"Yep! Canada."

America had obviously spent way too much time with the brow-bastard and his creepy imaginary friends. "...Okay, fine. Your 'invisible brother', Cameron-"

"Canada."

"Whatever. Is he strong?"

"Well, he doesn't like to fight, and he's kind of a crybaby, but Mattie can kick ass when he needs to. So yeah, I guess he's pretty strong. Not as strong as me, though."

"Who the hell is Mattie?"

"Canada!"

If there was a wall nearby, Romano would be banging his head against it about now. "Argh, whatever. Look- you and your invisible brother might be strong, but Feliciano _isn't_. He's stupid and weak and he scares easily, and he does everything he's told. I don't want him anywhere near anything to do with those evil bastards."

"Well, okay. I won't tell him if you don't want me to, but he'll find out eventually anyway, won't he? I mean, this is his house too."

"He might," Romano admitted reluctantly, "But I'd like to put it off as long as possible."

"It's not like he doesn't know about the mafia anyway, though. Doesn't he have to deal with them too?"

"...A-actually," Romano confessed after a few moments, so quietly that America could barely hear him, even through their helmets' radio system, "he hasn't so much. Until recently, I've managed to keep things mostly in South Italy. W-we had a deal;" he hunched into the jacket, voice dropping to just above a whisper. "i-if I did everything they told me, t-they'd leave Feliciano pretty much alone." he paused, twisting his fingers to clench the cuffs of the bomber tightly, arms still wrapped around the blond. America said nothing, waiting for the half-nation to continue.

"And, well, it worked, for the most part. But, now that I've started fighting back, they're trying to spread into North Italy now, too. I don't think I can stop it, but," he looked off to the side, watching the asphalt passing swiftly beneath their tires, "I don't want him to have anything to do with them before he absolutely has to."

"So," America asked after a few seconds, curious, "Why did you start fighting back?"

"Uh. Well," Romano felt his face grow hot, and was very glad the helmet hid it, "a while back, that stupid bastard Spain got really sick, and when I tried to help, they got in the way."

"Kicked their asses, huh?"

"I-it was their own fault, dammit." America laughed, and Romano continued, "Ever since then, we've been fighting. I don't regret it, but it pisses me off that they're trying to drag Feliciano into it."

"You're a really good brother, aren't you, Romano." America said. His voice over the speaker was warm, and Romano could tell he was smiling. He could feel his face growing hot again.

"I, I'm not doing it for him, bastard. It's just that I don't want to deal with that idiot whining and crying all the time, alright? I'm just trying to save myself the headache. B-besides, if he's scared, he'll ask the stupid potato-bastard for help, and I don't want that jackass hanging around, either." he defended.

"Haha, alright~." America laughed. "Still, I think your brother's lucky to have you."

"Cheh!" Romano scoffed."Just turn left up here, idiot. We're almost there."

"Okey-dokey!"

True enough, 10 minutes and a few more turns later, they finally arrived at the restaurant. Not wanting anyone to see him in America's clothing, the half-nation insisted they park a couple of blocks away.

"Finally!" America rejoiced as he cut the engine and dropped the kickstand. "I'm _starving_. I haven't eaten in _forever_!"

"You had a chocolate biscotti barely half an hour ago, idiot." Romano countered, dismounting.

"That doesn't count! That's barely even a snack."

"Knowing you, you had a big enough lun- ow!" he hissed, cradling his hand. America looked over, concerned.

"You okay? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, bastard." Romano hadn't noticed it before he'd tried to take off his helmet, but his hand hurt like hell. Blinking back tears, he realized his knuckles were swollen and bruised. He flexed his fingers, wincing as twinges of pain shot through his hand. America's hand closed around his wrist, and he started. He hadn't even noticed the other nation come up. Reflexively he tried to pull it back, but America effortlessly held him in place. "W-what the hell, bastard? Don't touch me!"

"Let me look at it." America insisted, examining the injury. "Hm, this isn't too bad, really. It's just bruised, could have been a lot worse. Looks like it hurts, though." He said, after prodding gingerly at the knuckles to make sure nothing was broken. "You probably didn't notice it before 'cause of the adrenaline rush. Usually you don't feel it 'till you crash."

"W-what would you know about it, bastard?" he bit out, trying ineffectually to get his hand back. His vision wasn't blurry from tears, dammit, he was just going faint from hunger. That probably explained why he couldn't wriggle out of the other's grasp, too.

America shot him a disbelieving look, eyebrows raised. "Are you kidding? This happens to me all the time. It's alright though," he continued, leaning over to rummage through the motorcycle's storage compartment, still holding fast to Romano's wrist, "I have some salve and stuff we can put on it."

Romano scrubbed at his eyes with the sleeve of the jacket he still wore, while America was busy looking for the salve. "I don't need any damn salve, jerk." he grumbled, sulking. "I can handle something like this just fine."

The taller nation straightened, a container of ointment and some bandages in his hand. "I know you can," he said, gently applying cooling salve to tender flesh with sure fingers, "but why put up with it when you don't have to?" he capped the salve, smiling warmly at his 'patient' before moving on to the bandages.

"Cheh." Romano looked away to hide his rising blush as America wrapped the injury with surprising expertise. He had to admit, whatever was in that salve worked pretty well. His hand felt a _lot_ better, only a lingering soreness reminding him that it was even hurt at all.

"There, all done!" America announced, releasing the half-nation's wrist and putting everything back. Romano examined his newly-bandaged hand, reluctantly impressed with the result.

"Where did you learn to do that, bastard?"

America chuckled. "Well, Mattie got tired of patching me up all the time, so he made me learn to do it myself." he admitted.

"Who?"

"My brother, remember? Canada?"

Oh right, the 'invisible' guy. "Well, whatever. Looks like you didn't screw it up too bad, so...thanks, I guess."

"No problem!" America beamed. "The salve will help with the pain and swelling, but we should get some ice on that as soon as possible. It'll heal a lot faster that way."

"I can get some from the kitchens once we're inside." Romano said, unzipping America's bomber and throwing it over the seat. He looked down at himself with dismay. _Crap, _he was all rumpled now! _Argh_. If he showed up like this, Feliciano, that idiot, would never let him hear the end of it, dammit. Cursing internally, he tried to smooth out the wrinkles, with moderate success. 'Wrinkle-resistant', his ass. He'd have to see if the coat check had a garment steamer in the back.

"Ro_mano_~," America whined, "Can we go now? Please? I'm _starving~._"

"Yeah, sure." he gave his clothes a final brush, and lead the way."C'mon, let's go."

"Yay!" the tall blond bounded excitedly after him, like an oversized puppy. "How are you going to explain your hand to North Italy?" he asked curiously.

"Uh," Romano hadn't really thought about that, actually, but it wasn't difficult to think of a story."I'll just tell him it got caught in a door."

"Oh, okay. Which door?"

"...Does it matter? Just a door."

"Well, we should get our stories straight in case they ask me, too."

"Why would they ask you, bastard?"

"I don't know, but you never know, right? So we should decide on a door, just in case."

Romano sighed. "_Nino's_, then. Happy?"

"But what if he asks Nino or Amata?"

"...Y'know, I could always tell him you did it. Stepped on it with your big fat feet, dammit."

"Aw, that's not nice! And I'm not fat." America pouted. "How about the door at your place? They left before we did, right? So it could have happened then."

"Yeah, sure, that's fine."

"I hope we don't have to wait long to eat, I'm really really hungry." he groaned.

"You're _always_ hungry, idiot. Don't you ever think about anything else besides food?"

"Of course! I think about all kinds of stuff! Like heroes, and guns, and aliens, and whales and stuff! Fighting terrorists, too."

"Big surprise." Romano muttered dryly, rolling his eyes.

Not hearing this, America went on. "Lately though, I've mostly been thinking about you, Romano."

_Dammit, dammit, dammit._ The Italian dropped his face into his palm, exhaling slowly. "I hate you _so much_." he ground out.

"Aw, don't say that, Romano!" the other laughed.

"S-shut up, jerk!" he opened the door leading into the restaurant. "Try and behave yourself like a civilized person while we're here, ok?" He ordered, refusing to look at the American.

"Pfft, what are you talking about? I'm _always_ awesome!"

"Just get inside, idiot."

The coat check did, in fact, have a steamer. After a quick trip inside Romano was looking and feeling a lot less mussed (America, of course, couldn't tell the difference), so they proceeded to the foyer.

The hostess waiting there was strikingly beautiful, with long dark hair tied up to frame large, luminous eyes, smooth olive skin, and a graceful, willowy figure. She greeted them professionally and courteously, despite the blush which dusted her cheeks from the moment she saw them. Both males watched, brows raised appreciatively, as she turned to lead them to their table. As they moved to follow her, America tilted his head thoughtfully.

"Wow, Romano- she's almost as gorgeous as you." he said unthinkingly.

"_Chigi!_" Romano stopped dead, throwing his arm out to halt America in his tracks. Turning, he twisted his uninjured hand to grasp the taller blond's tie, yanking him down so they're nose-to-nose. "If you say anything like that in front of my brother or the potato-swine, jackass, I will rip out your tongue and feed it to you." he snarled. The effect was ruined somewhat by the fact that his face was glowing tomato-red. America blinked at him for a second, before breaking into a smile.

"Alrighty!" he agreed amiably, with a quick nod. "I gotcha."

"Good." Romano nodded, and released him, straightening the tie where he'd been pulling on it and smoothing down the moron's lapels. "Then let's go."

* * *

_AN: __This chapter brought to you by '_L'italiano' _by Toto Cutugno, and_'In Italia' _by Fabri Fibra Ft. Gianna Nannini, both of which which__ I listened to on loop while writing it. It's a good thing I didn't find it last chapter, or this fic might have taken a sharp turn into angsty mafitalia territory. Maybe another fic instead, hmm._

_Again, this is partly based on RL. Up 'til recently, the mafia's operated mostly in S. Italy. Since S. Italy's been cracking down and fighting back, they're trying to spread into North Italy. S. Italy's not too happy about that, of course, and is working to prevent it as much as possible._


	14. Atmospheric Conditions May Vary

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

_Okay, so, work has been nuts lately. I don't think I've had more than an hour or two of sleep all day, so everytime I got home and tried to write, I'd nod off at the computer before I'd gotten more than a sentence or two down. Which sucked. The first half of this chapter came pretty easily, but I had major writer's block on the second half. Once I realised that I was trying to stuff 3-4 chapter's worth of content into a few thousand words, I corrected my mistake and things went much easier. _

_However, since it's been so long since I last posted a chapter, I decided to post what I had as soon as I finished it. The next few should be more polished. _

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Inside, the restaurant exuded elegance and beauty, but not pretentiously so. Instead, the atmosphere was warm, intimate. So rather than feeling as though one should be on their best behaviour, it encouraged patrons to relax and enjoy both their evening and company. Still, America's a little glad that Romano had thought to dress him up. Not that wearing his fatigues in here would have phased him, but somehow his current attire seems more...appropriate.

Their dinner companions are, of course, already seated, and as they approached the table, they could hear the tail end of what sounds like a lecture from Germany. "As long as you understand, it's fine. Just remember that you have me, so there's no need to keep on flirting with every pretty face you see."

"But, Germany-"

"Hey, you guys!" America greeted excitedly, interrupting with every bit of the impeccable insight into the mood which he was renowned for. Romano scowled, both at the nation's heedlessness and Germany's words. How dare that bastard potato-sucker tell his brother what to do!

His irritation was forgotten completely as the two at the table looked up to greet them, and froze, eyes wide in shock. Two sets of jaws went slack. Realizing what they were staring at and why, he crossed his arms, gloating victoriously. _That's right little brother, mine is _way_ better-looking than yours. Suck on _**that**_, potato-bastard. _(Not that America was _his_, exactly, but it was the principle of the thing.)

"Sorry to keep you guys waiting," America continued, smilingly oblivious to the nations' astonishment. "Have you been here long?"

"Nrgh." croaked Germany, and blushed. Clearing his throat, he pulled himself together and admitted, "Uh, no. We just arrived a short while ago."

A wide, beaming smile crossed the other Italian's face. "Mr. America! You look so good~!" he praised, rising from his seat, intending to examine the new-and-improved nation closer. Without taking his eyes off the other blond, Germany reached out and pulled him back down. "Ve~," North Italy protested."I just wanted to see~."

"You can see from here." Germany answered shortly.

Feliciano pouted a bit, but it quickly turned into a smile as he turned to his brother. "You did a wonderful job, big brother~! The cut and colors suit him perfectly. He looks so much better, ve~."

"Of course! I have great taste, moron." Romano huffed proudly. "I can even make this idiot look good."

"Yes~! You look amazing, America! That suit really looks good on you! You should dress this way more often~." the younger Italian effused. Romano shifted, feeling both gratified and somehow inexplicably irritated.

America laughed. "Thanks! I'm thinking about it." Romano looked at him, surprised.

"Ve~, really?"

"Yep! Nino gave me his card." he pulled it out of his pocket, waving it. "I don't know anything about suits, but he said he'd help." Romano frowned. When had that happened? He hadn't known about this. And why would America want suits all of a sudden?

"Why would you need more suits, bastard?" he demanded.

"Uh," America glanced at the others, recalling Romano's earlier warning. Would 'so you'll like me more' count as something he shouldn't say? Better play it safe. His gaze slid to the side, "no reason." he answered, blushing slightly. Romano's eyes narrowed. Feliciano looked between the two of them, smiling.

"I think it's wonderful idea, America~. You'll look so good!"

Romano thought about all the other nations seeing the other looking like... _this_ (and why wouldn't the moron say why he wanted them?), and his frown deepened. Was America stupid? That was a _terrible_ idea. Didn't the idiot know that would cause nothing but trouble? Oh right, this was _America._ The bastard probably didn't think past the next meal.

"Romano? You ok?" the subject of his thoughts inquired, leaning down to check. Romano pulled back, disgruntled and slightly embarrassed to have been spacing out.

"Cheh, d-don't get in my face, idiot. I'm fine." he huffed and looked towards the kitchens. "I'm going to go talk to the head chef about tonight's menu."

"Okay! Don't forget ice for your hand, ok?"

"As if I would! I'm not an idiot like you, dumbass!"

"Why does your hand need ice, Romano?" his little brother spoke up, craning to see his elder brother's hands. He gasped. "Romano~! You're hurt! What happened?" he rose and went to take the injured hand in his, examining it closely.

"Door." the two replied in unison. They glanced at each other quickly, and looked away. America shifted uncomfortably.

"Ve~, you should be more careful! You could have been really hurt! Let's get you some ice, now~." Feliciano fussed, dragging his protesting brother off to the kitchens. The two blonds watched them go, then turned to each other, sharing a slightly hesitant glance.

* * *

Noticing the tension building as they neared the table, America's first instinct was, of course, to jump in and solve the problem, whatever it might be- but he'd learned long ago that interfering in other couple's relationship problems was rarely a good idea (except in extreme cases). This seemed to be something they were working out just fine on their own, anyway. They really didn't seem too upset, so he'd just ignore it.

But then Romano's expression darkened, and America decided he'd have to do something after all. If the half-nation was worrying about his brother and being angry with Germany, then he wouldn't be able to enjoy himself, and America really, really wanted Romano to have a good time tonight. So, time to be the hero. He'd have to change the mood, which wouldn't be too hard. A loud, cheerful entrance should shatter the tension, no problem.

It worked even better than he hoped (mission success! High score for the hero~). Germany and North Italy were completely distracted, and Romano was...well, scowling, but it looked like it was just his default 'I'm surrounded by irritating idiots' scowl, so that was okay.

Actually, Germany and Romano's brother were staring a lot more than he'd expected. Come to think of it, this might be the first time he'd ever seen Germany fazed. Interesting. Wearing suits might have more than one purpose (though getting close to Romano was still his number one priority by far). He'd have to remember that for the next time he wanted to propose something important ( or crazy, by others' standards, anyway) at a world meeting.

Romano seemed happier, too; at least until he refused to explain why he wanted the suits. That was okay, though, 'cause he could always tell the half-nation the reason later, if he really wanted to know.

Then the Italian brothers left for the kitchens, and he and Germany were alone together. Which wasn't a bad thing, but America wasn't sure what they'd talk about, since neither of them knew each other very well. He hoped it wouldn't be too awkward.

After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Germany cleared his throat. "Why don't you sit down?" he suggested. "This will probably take a while."

"Haha, alright." America dropped into the seat across from him, and grinned."So, do you know when we'll get to eat? 'Cause I'm really starving."

"No, sorry."

"Oh well. Hopefully it's soon."

Germany drummed his fingers on the table.

America shifted in his seat.

"...You look...good." Germany offered after a while, somewhat awkwardly.

"Thanks!" America smiled. "So do you. Did your Italy dress you, too?"

"Actually, yes, he did." the other confessed, shifting slightly in his seat.

"Well, he did a good job." Leaning his elbows on the table, America grinned wryly. "They seem to put a lot of emphasis on style, don't they?"

"They do appear to have a passion for fashion." the nation offered a half-smile in return.

"I don't really get it, but if it makes 'em happy, I guess." He shrugged, grabbing the pepper shaker and absently batting it around on the tabletop. "I don't usually worry about how I look, so much as whether what I'm wearing is practical and comfortable."

"I tend more toward functionality in clothing, as well." Germany agreed, folding his hands on the table and relaxing slightly.

"I know, right? But still, these Italian suits are way more comfortable than the ones England tries to make me wear." America said, looking down at his suit and tugging lightly on his tie.

That's because England's a country of masochists, Germany thought privately. Wasn't their food alone proof of that? What he _said_ was, "Perhaps you should mention that to England, the next time you see him."

"Oh man, he would _flip_!" America laughed. "That's awesome, I totally should! In fact, I think I'll call him later and let him know."

"Why wait? You could call from the restroom." Germany suggested, the corners of his mouth twitching up as fought a grin of his own.

"That's a great idea! You sure you wouldn't mind? I don't want to leave you hangin' here by your lonesome." the younger nation asked, already reaching for his cell.

"Not at all. It's for a worthy cause." the other blond waved off his concern, looking amused. "Just tell me what he says."

"Deal! I'll be right back, then. If Romano gets back before I do, let him know where I am, 'kay?" America grinned, saluting Germany with his cell as he left to find the men's room.

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_AN: I just realized that I call Feliciano by his 'human' name, and everyone else by their nation name, most of the time. How odd._

_Oh- and for those of you who think Germany doesn't have a sense of humor, remember- he's the country who came up with** s****chadenfreude**_**. **_Oh yes._


	15. Siblings

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia- where the 'het' isn't short for 'hetero'.**

_I'm going to stop promising to edit/polish these, 'cause I obviously can't wait to post them the second they're finished. _

_In the meantime, **Italians.**_

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**

When the Italian brothers entered the kitchens, they were immediately fawned upon by attentive kitchen staff. After requesting a plastic bag and some towels, Feliciano waved them off, and they obediently went about their business until the brothers might require their services once again.

Still dragging his brother, the younger Italy went to the ice machine, where he scooped crushed ice into the bag, sealing it tight. Wrapping it in a towel, he took his brother's bandaged hand, and applied the makeshift ice pack gently to the injury. Romano mumbled some token protests, but allowed his brother to fuss over him.

"Does it hurt much?" Feliciano asked, as he satisfied himself that his brother's injury was being sufficiently tended to.

"Cheh, as if a little thing like this could hurt me, idiot." Romano scoffed.

"That's good~." the younger brother lifted the ice pack to examine the bandages. He prodded the area gently, making sure it wasn't too cold or not cold enough."Ve~ How did you wrap it so neatly with only one hand?"

"Actually, that bastard America put some stuff on it and bandaged it up. I guess the idiot's not always completely useless." He made a mental note to find out where America had found that salve, and get some for himself and Feliciano. It was pretty effective.

"America did? Where did he learn to wrap injuries like this?"

"His imaginary 'invisible brother', apparently."

"Oh, Canada?"

"The hell? You mean he's real? That bastard actually does have a little brother?"

"Yeah, Mr. Canada."

Huh. "...Is he really invisible?"

"Mm, not that I know of. I don't think he attends the meetings, but I've seen him sometimes with big brother France or America." he elaborated, unwrapping the pack and adding a little more ice. "He looks a lot like America, but he's not as...energetic. He seems very nice, ve~."

Romano rolled his eyes. As if his brother was a good judge of character. The idiot thought _France_ was 'very nice'.

"So~." Feliciano smiled, reappling the ice pack."You took him to _Nino's_."

"Cheh. I, I didn't have much choice." Romano defended. "I was going to take him to a regular shop, but" but then the idiot had done something kind of unexpectedly sweet and thoughtful (but still stupid, dammit) and thrown him off, "the bastard's so ridiculously huge it would have taken forever to find anything, and I didn't want to waste any more time on that asshole than I had to."

"Ve~." the younger nodded understandingly."So, what did Nino and Amata think?"

"They seemed to like him, for some reason." Romano reluctantly confessed. "Amata even tried to feed the idiot. But," he added, "They like everybody." (Which wasn't entirely true, he admitted to himself. Though they were _friendly_ to most people, it was rare for the couple to welcome someone as wholeheartedly as they had the blond nation. Especially someone new. Unlike his little brother, they were very good judges of character, and he usually trusted their judgement. But still.)

"Nino gave him his_ personal_ card, though." Feliciano observed."He doesn't give those out to everybody."

Romano pursed his lips, still a little sore about not having known about that. "Cheh, I guess. I wasn't around when it happened." He scowled. "I don't know why that stupid bastard suddenly needs more suits, anyway." he muttered sulkily.

The younger Italy looked at his brother's sulky expression and sighed inwardly, wondering how his usually perceptive brother could be so blind about things that concerned himself. "Ve~, well, maybe he wants to make a good impression." he offered.

"Who does that bastard have to impress? He's freaking _America_, dammit." his frown deepened, and he'd have crossed his arms if his brother wasn't still holding his hand.

Feliciano smiled, and moved in to wrap his free arm around his brother, resting his head on the other's shoulders. "Why don't you just ask him directly, Romano~? I think America would be happy to tell you if you asked."

"As if I care why that idiot does what he does." Romano scoffed (and he wasn't leaning into his brother's embrace, dammit, the idiot was just pulling him off balance, that's all). "That bastard can do whatever he wants. It doesn't concern me." He reluctantly wrapped his free arm around the other's waist, resting his chin on top of Feliciano's head (not because it was comforting, but because he had to keep his balance somehow). "And don't get so touchy-feely with me, idiot." he grumbled, as an afterthought.

"Ve~, just a little bit is fine, Romano." the younger responded, contentedly snuggling closer. Romano didn't often show affection, so he revelled in it when it occurred.

"Just don't get used to it, stupid."

"Mhm~." He shifted to press his face into his brother's neck, enjoying his warmth and closeness while he could. "Hey Romano~, what are we having for dinner?"

"I was thinking _c__uscus estivo_ and _s__paghetti con melanzane_ for the main course, and fennel and artichoke salad and _bruschetta_ on the side."

"No _antipasti_?" Feliciano asked, surprised.

"No, there's no point. That bottomless pit would eat it all before it even hit the table. Might as well just dive right into the main course."

"Ah~. What about dessert?"

"_Torta di mele ed amaretti._"

"Ve~, that sounds so good! I can't wait."

"Of course it's good, idiot. I chose it, didn't I?"

"That's true! Could we get something with potatoes in it for Germany, too?"

"Hell no! That loser can eat what everybody else does, and like it!"

"But brotherrr~" the younger pulled back to give his brother puppy-eyes."Pleeaase? He really likes them! Really!"

"Who cares what that bastard likes, idiot? He can go home and suck on wurst, for all I care! Chigi!"

"Don't say that, Romano~! Germany takes really good care of me! I just want to do something nice for him, too." Feliciano whined, flushed and teary-eyed.

"S-stop whining, dumbass!" Romano ordered, pushing his brother away. "Besides, wasn't he yelling at you earlier? You should just forget about that asshole, stupid little brother."

"That wasn't what it sounded like! It's a misunderstanding, a misunderstanding! It's not Germany's fault!" he protested.

"Oh yeah, stupid? What exactly was going on, then?" the elder demanded, slamming his uninjured hand down on a nearby table.

Feliciano blushed and looked down, shifting and rubbing the back of his neck embarrassedly. Romano's eyes narrowed.

"...Forget it, idiot." he growled. "Just get out of here, dammit. Go back to our table."

"But, Romano~"

"Go _away_, moron! Get the hell out of here!" he yelled, throwing a towel at his brother. "Back to your precious potato-bastard!"

"Don't be mad, Romano! I'm sorry!" Feliciano apologized tearfully. He leaned over to drop the ice pack on the table next to his brother. "Keep that on your hand, okay? I'll wait for you at the table~, brother!" he sniffed, scampering out of the kitchen with a final, "Don't be mad, okay?"

"Shut up! I hate you!" Romano scrubbed at his eyes with his sleeve. He wasn't crying, dammit. Some dust had gotten into his eyes, or something.

He picked up the ice pack, staring down at it as he gripped it tightly. Why were they always fighting over that worthless potato-bastard? They'd finally been reunited, dammit, and that asshole was always coming between them. He sniffed, swallowing hard. That blond bastard should just leave his brother alone, so they could be together in peace.

Throwing the ice pack down, he leaned on the tabletop, face in his hands. Not crying, dammit, it was just...just...

After a while, he lifted his head, swiping at his eyes. Dammit, he was a mess. His nose was running all over the place, and his eyes stung. He'd better go clean up, or people might get the wrong idea. He wouldn't want the others to think he'd been crying. He was fine, dammit. Sighing deeply, he went to find the restroom and wash up. He'd come back and place their orders afterwards.

* * *

_AN: I guess Romano has allergies. To stupid little brothers, maybe? Or Germany. :x_


	16. Stupid Brothers' Stupider Boyfriends

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

_No work today due to the 12-odd inches of snow, so here you go._

* * *

Entering the restroom, Romano was surprised to hear America's voice, speaking loudly. What the hell? What was the idiot doing in here? He was supposed to be waiting at the table. The sound of the other's voice made something inside him warm, and the fact that just hearing the moron's _voice_ made him feel a little better irritated him to no end. He debated just leaving, but...he really needed to clean up.

"I can't help it that Romano's got better taste than you, England~." Romano huffed a little at that, amused. He could hear the shouting coming through the speaker from here.

The sound, quiet though it was, made America turn around. Seeing Romano, his brows furrowed in concern. "Gotta go, Iggy. Catch ya later." He said, and hung up, effectively halting the stream of profanity from the other end. "You okay, Romano? What's wrong?"

For some reason, his concern made the ache in Romano's chest well up again, and he blinked back tears. To his embarrassment and frustration, he sniffled. "Nothing's wrong, idiot. I'm fine." he muttered brokenly, looking anywhere but at the other nation.

"...Okay. If you say so." America responded gently. Quietly crossing to the Italian, he reached out to an arm to pull him close. Romano clutched the idiot's lapels tightly, forehead pressed against America's chest. (Just to catch his balance, not because it was sort of comforting. And America's warm hand on his back wasn't calming at all.) He forced himself to breathe slowly, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. After a few moments, he felt sufficiently balanced, and pushed the blond away.

"Don't touch me, idiot." he said half-heartedly, voice hoarse. He stomped over to the sink, washing his hands, splashing his face. America stood silently nearby, but instead of being unsettling, it was strangely...nice to know he was there.

After shaking the water off his hands, he turned, leaning against the counter with a sigh. "Do you...do you and your brother ever fight?" he asked hesitantly, looking off to the side.

"Me and Mattie? Oh yeah, all the time."America answered with a wry smile. "In fact," he added, coming over to crouch down next to Romano, leaning back against the cabinets,"we had a pretty big one not too long ago. A real doozy."

"...Yeah? What did you fight about?" Romano asked, looking down at the tall blond.

"Well,"America started, letting his hands drape across his knees, "Mattie's been dating this guy. Prussia." he added, and the Italian snorted. "Yeah, right? Not that I mind Prussia too much, he's an okay guy. We've hung out sometimes, and usually get along pretty good. But liking him enough to hang out with him now and then is one thing, but letting him date my brother is another thing completely."

"So what'd you do?"

"Hm, well...I didn't know they were dating until I sort of walked in on them making out on Mattie's couch," he made a face, "so of course, I wasn't very happy. I may have beat the crap out of Prussia and thrown him out of the house." he admitted.

Romano huffed in incredulous amusement. 'May have'? He almost felt sorry for Prussia. _Almost._ If only he could do that to the _other_ potato-bastard.

"Needless to say," America continued, "Mattie wasn't too happy about that. He wanted to go right after Prussia, but I stopped him. He actually _punched_ me, which he hasn't done in decades. Then we shouted at each other for _hours_. I told him that Prussia was no good for him, and would only hurt him, and he argued that he was old enough to think for himself, and told me I was an overprotective asshole with delusions of heroism. Then he punched me again, and left. I had a black eye for_ two weeks_ after that." he said, almost proudly.

The half-nation rolled his eyes. Trust _America_ to be proud of his brother's fighting skills even if they were turned against himself. "Not that I can't guess, but why didn't you want Prussia dating your brother?"

America rested his chin in his palm, elbow propped on his knee. "Mattie...well, Mattie has a bit of an inferiority complex. People don't always notice him, 'cause he's quiet and polite and all that stuff. So sometimes he feels like he's not as good as other people, or that nobody cares about him. Which isn't true, of course, 'cause Mattie's _awesome_. He's_ my _little brother, after all! He's just not very outgoing, and he's always well-behaved, so it's hard for people to see that."

"But since he feels overlooked all the time, he tends to get attached quickly to anyone who pays attention to him. He falls hard and fast," Romano frowned, wondering if he was responding so quickly to America's attentions for similar reasons (crap, was he that pathetic, dammit?), but pushed that thought aside for later contemplation as the other went on, "so it's really easy for him to get hurt. And you know Prussia." he glanced up at the Italian, mouth twisted into a wry grimace. "He's not exactly Mister Considerate."

"He's an asshole, you mean."

"Basically, yeah. Cool 'n' all, but still an asshole."

"Did the potato-bastard have anything to say about you beating up his brother?"

"Germany? Surprisingly, no. He said something to Prussia, though. Prussia came by a week or so after and, well, not exactly apologized, but explained that he really cared about Mattie, and didn't intend to hurt him, and stuff. Mattie told me later that Germany told Prussia that it was his own fault for not letting me know his intentions as soon as they started dating."

Romano frowned, absently rubbing a thumb across the countertop, remembering how Germany had come to him early on in his and Feliciano's relationship- right after they'd gone from friends to, well, dating. The stupid bastard had just shown up one day, stiffly informing him that he was now in a romantic relationship with North Italy, and explaining that his intentions were serious. Romano, of course, had thrown a fit, but Germany had been unfazed. He'd just said what he felt needed to be said and left, the bastard. "Huh. Did your brother do that? Talk to that Germany jerk about his involvement with Prussia?"

America chuckled. "If there's a polite thing to do, you can bet Mattie's done it. He has more manners than a southern belle."

Romano gave the blond an odd look, wondering what bells had to do with anything, no matter where they were from. Dismissing it as the younger nation's tendency to spout nonsense, he asked, curious, "So you're okay with them dating now?"

"I'm not really _okay_ with it," America confessed. "I still don't like it. But after Mattie and I made up, we had a long talk. He says Prussia makes him happy, and after watching them together...that seems to be the case. I'm not sure I'll ever be entirely cool with it, but I want Mattie to be happy. So I'll give Prussia a chance, for my brother's sake. Though," he added, smiling wickedly, "that doesn't mean I didn't let Prussia know that if he hurt my brother in any way, his nation wouldn't be the only nonexistent thing about him."

"Heh." the Italian almost smiled. "Wish I could do that to the potato-bastard."

"Oh? Is that what this is about? Germany and your brother?" America asked, leaning his head against the half-nation's leg, looking up at him curiously.

"Don't touch me, bastard." Romano barked, whacking the moron on his empty head.

"Hey, I was using that!" America grinned, as he resumed his previous position, rubbing the spot where he'd been struck.

"Cheh, as if you've _ever_ used it in your life, idiot." Romano scoffed, nudging the other with his foot.

"So mean!" the blond held a hand over his heart with a mock-hurt expression, then rested his chin back in his hand. "So, did you have a fight with North Italy about Germany?" he asked.

"Not that it's any of your business," the half-nation reluctantly answered, looking down and rubbing at a spot on the counter, "but yeah. We fight about him a lot."

"Yeah?"America again looked up at him curiously, chin still in hand."You don't like Germany? He seems like a nice enough guy. A little stiff, but not bad."

Suddenly pissed, Romano kicked the blond's shoulder so that the taller nation lost balance, sprawling sideways on the floor with a startled yelp."Shut up, jackass!" he growled, "You don't know what that loser's like! He's a musclebound moron with a stupid face and potatoes for brains! That jerk is a terrible influence on Feliciano! All he talks about is Germany, Germany, Germany! _All the time!_ I hate that potato-bastard!" he flailed his arms, and started to pace. America watched wide-eyed from where he lay on the floor, brows raised in surprise.

"We were finally supposed to be together again after all this time, and he's _always_ with that asshole! I hardly ever see the idiot! And when I do it's always 'Oh Germany said this' and 'Germany said that' and 'Germany is soooo wonderful' and shit! What the _fuck_! Who wants to listen to that?" he snarled, kicking one of the stall doors so hard that it swung loose on its hinges. He stood, flushed and panting, hands clenched tightly at his sides.

"Woah, hey." America said, getting up from the floor and grabbing the wrist of the Italian's injured hand."Careful, you're going to make it worse." Romano struggled to pull away, but gave up when it was obvious that the other nation remained completely oblivious to his attempts. America gently pried his fist open, examining each finger carefully, manipulating them individually to check their range of motion. "Does that hurt at all?" he asked, glancing at the half-nation.

"O-of course not, moron." Romano replied, looking away.

"Did you get some ice on it?" he asked, prodding the bandages gingerly.

"I said I would, didn't I?"

"Yep! That's good. You should get some more, though- we should ice it at least 15 minutes every hour or so." he turned it over, stroking his thumb across the bandages wrapped around Romano's palm.

"Don't tell me what to do, asshole."

"Just sayin'." America grinned."Well, the bandages look good at least, so all you need is the ice." Despite having apparently finished his examination, he didn't release the half-nation. Instead, he returned his attention to the hand he held, and started gently massaging Romano's knuckles, just above the bandages.

"W-wha-"

"You know, Romano," the taller nation interrupted the oncoming protests, focused on his task,"your brother pretty much _adores_ you."

"Cheh, what would _you_ know about it, jackass?"

"No, _really._" America insisted. "Sure, he cares about Germany, but you're his _brother_. You'll _always_ be his brother. That's something no-one can take from you two."

Romano snorted, but didn't otherwise respond.

"Y'know," the other continued, moving his attentions to the Italian's fingers, "Mattie and I set aside time every two weeks or so to get together and hang out, just the two of us. We have a hockey night once a month (totally his idea, by the way), and other times we catch a movie or just hang out. And sometimes when we both have some spare time, we get together and play catch or something. We're both pretty busy most of the time," he added," but since we make it a point to set aside time for each other, we don't have to worry about losing touch or anything. Maybe you could do something like that with your brother. You know, set aside a night to hang out, like a soccer night or something. You guys like soccer, right?"

"You mean football, idiot?" the half-nation corrected drily.

America shot him a surprised look, and smiled widely. "I didn't know you watched football, Romano! We should totally get together sometime and hit a game! Oh, oh- watch the Superbowl with me!"

The Italian rolled his eyes and knocked the blond on the head (and damn that was alot harder to do when he was standing, why did the bastard have to be so freaking tall?). "Soccer _is_ football, you moron. _It's the same damn thing_. Your stupid country just can't get the name right."

"Pffft, our football is _way_ more awesome. Just 'cause the rest of the world calls soccer 'football', doesn't mean they're right."

"...Just when I think you can't get any stupider, you go and say something that proves me wrong."

"I can't help it if you can't handle my awesome." the American smirked.

"...Did England drop you on your head when you were a baby? 'Cause that would explain _so much."_

"A few times, yeah." the taller nation admitted easily."Something like that wouldn't hurt a hero, though!"

Romano just dropped his face in his palm and groaned. That brow-bastard had a lot to answer for.

"Don't worry, Romano!" America went on cheerfully."You're pretty awesome too, even if you can't tell the difference between soccer and football!"

Right, that was_ it._ Yanking his hand out of America's grasp, Romano growled, "I'm going back to the kitchens, jackass." He stomped to the door, grinding his teeth.

"Okay~! Don't forget the ice, Romano~."

"Don't tell me what to do, bastard! Chigi!" Romano yelled, giving the blond the finger as he left. He could hear the idiot's laughter behind the door, and oddly enough, despite his annoyance he still felt a lot better. The ache in his chest had faded almost completely. He still wasn't sure that talking to his brother would work, and Germany was still a bastard, but for now it was okay.

* * *

_AN: This didn't quite play out like I expected. _


	17. My Roof, My Rules

**Hetalia: consider ownership thereof disclaimed~!**

_Not my best effort, I feel. Hope the last half isn't too boring. _

* * *

Upon arriving back at the table, America was not terribly surprised to find North Italy there, clinging to Germany's arm as if his life depended on it. He was smiling, but red-rimmed eyes and the patch of wetness on Germany's shoulder indicated that the younger Italy brother had recently been crying, as well. It looked like Germany had the situation well in hand, though, so America just smiled and waved. "Hey guys!" he greeted, plopping into his chair. "You just get back, Italy?"

"Mm~, yep!" Feliciano chirped, releasing Germany's arm and leaning forward. "Brother sent me back. I made him mad." he admitted sadly."He doesn't like it when I talk about Germany. Ve~, I don't know why he dislikes Germany so much. But, America," he asked, brightening again,"where did you go off to?"

"Oh, right! Germany! I almost forgot." America said eagerly, and held up a finger,"One sec." Searching his pockets and pulling out his cell, he removed a data stick and tossed it on the table."I recorded the conversation I had with England for you. It was so epic! I had to cut it short," he added, as the the nation picked it up and examined it, "but if you're at the next world meeting, you can watch him finish." He grinned, and Germany smirked. "I'm sure he'll have worked himself into a fury by then. It should be great, bring a camera!"

"I'll do that, thank you." Germany nodded his thanks, slipping the recording into an inside pocket. Prussia would _love_ this, he'd have to listen to it with him later.

"Ve~, you talked to England? Why?" the Italian asked, looking between the two blonds curiously.

"Just letting Iggy know I've been suit shopping with Romano." America said, with a wink to Germany."He's been wanting me to wear a suit for _years_."

"Indeed," Germany supplied, "England has often expressed his concern over America's wardrobe."

"Ah~." the half-nation nodded. He didn't understand why England would be upset about America finally wearing suits like he'd wanted, but decided it wasn't important, and returned to leaning on Germany.

"Man, I'm starvinnnng~." America whined, "When can we _eat_?" He followed this up with a jaw-wrenching yawn, blinking a few times and leaning forward to sprawl his upper torso on the table, resting his chin on folded arms.

"Ve~, America, are you tired _already_?" Feliciano asked. "It's barely eight, yet!"

"Mm, a little." America admitted, rubbing his eyes,"I haven't slept much this week." another yawn."I didn't want to miss hanging out with Romano." He settled back on his arms, blinking sleepily.

"You didn't sleep all week because you didn't want to miss a dinner engagement on the weekend?" Germany frowned. Had the American expected to sleep through the weekend if he closed his eyes? Surely he wasn't that stupid?

"Yeah. Well," he amended,"mostly because I had a lot of extra work come in. I had to work double shifts in order to finish on time, or I would have had to work all weekend, too."

"Ve~, that's so sweet, America!" the Italian effused, clasping his hands and smiling happily."You must really like big brother~."

"I do." America nodded, "I like Romano a lot. But I don't think he feels the same way, yet." he added, sighing a little.

"When did you sleep last?" Germany asked.

"Um." the other nation blinked, trying to remember."I had a few hours this morning, I think. I don't really remember." Germany sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Italy, why don't you get America some coffee? Something strong."

"Ve~, that's a great idea! You're so smart, Germany!" North Italy praised, hugging the German and bounding to his feet."Don't worry, America! I'll get you some coffee, so you won't be sleepy anymore!" he patted the American's shoulder reassuringly.

"That sounds...really good." America nodded, smiling drowsily."Thanks, guys."

"My pleasure, ve~! I want Romano to be happy, too!" The Italian beamed, and left in search of caffeine.

3 cups of coffee later, America was feeling completely recharged. He was impressed- he had a high caffeine tolerance, since he drank so much soda and coffee normally, but Italy's coffee was in a different league entirely. And _strong. _It was possibly the best coffee he'd ever had, he admitted to himself. He'd have to see about bringing some back with him.

"I don't think I've ever tasted coffee like this." he said, looking at the bottom of his third cup."It's really good!"

"Of course it is, idiot. That crap you Americans drink is just dark bitter water." another voice interjected from behind them. America looked over his shoulder to see Romano strolling up, hands in his pockets.

"Romano!" he greeted gleefully."You're back!"

The Italian shot him a look, taking his seat and reaching for the coffee. "Very observant, bastard. I never would have noticed if you didn't yell it across the restaurant." He responded dryly, pouring himself some coffee.

"Haha, sorry. I'm just happy to see you." America grinned, squirming in his seat. Romano facepalmed, exhaling exasperatedly.

"...You either need more coffee, bastard, or a whole lot less."

"More please!" the blond requested, holding out his now-empty cup.

"Do I look like a barista to you, idiot? You can pour it yourself, dammit." the half-nation grumbled, but filled it anyway.

"It's so good!" America beamed, taking a sip."Thank you, Romano~."

"Cheh, I only poured it 'cause if I let you do it, you'd have spilled it all over your suit, stupid." Romano scoffed, sipping his own coffee. "Don't get the wrong idea, dammit." The blond just smiled.

The other two watched this exchange with varying degrees of interest. Germany wondered what America had done to keep South Italy from constantly hitting/throwing things/yelling at him (nothing he'd tried to do to prevent it ever seemed to work). He made a mental note to ask the other nation later.

Feliciano was just happy that his brother seemed to have calmed down. "Ve~ welcome back, brother!" he smiled, reaching across the table to take his brother's hand.

"Don't copy the moron, stupid." Romano ordered. "One idiot is bad enough."

"Ve~." the other half-nation prodded his brother's bandages. "Where did your ice pack go?"

"Melted, idiot. They'll bring out another with the wine."

"Ah." Feliciano nodded.

"I can't drink wine."America said offhandedly. "I'll just stick with coffee."

Romano slammed his cup down. "What the hell do you mean, you can't drink wine?" he growled, eyes narrowing at the taller nation. "You can't eat Italian food without wine, bastard."

"I'm underage." America explained. "So I can't drink alcohol."

"What the fuck? No you're not." Romano argued.

"Yeah I am," America insisted."It's not legal to drink alcohol if you're under 21."

"Ve~, we don't have such a law, America~." the younger Italian interjected."You can drink at any age, here."

America blinked in surprise. "Really? Huh."

"What kind of moronic rule is that, anyway? No alcohol 'til you're 21, I've never heard something so stupid." Romano scoffed, then furrowed his brows."Wait, are you telling me that you've never had alchohol?"

"Sure I have." America said, sipping his coffee."I used to drink sometimes when I was younger, 'specially during the wars. And England and France used to give me wine and beer all the time when I was a kid. Once England even let me have some rum, but I didn't like it much. I haven't since the law was put into effect, though."

"Cheh, I don't see why not. It's not like you'd get into trouble for it, moron." Romano said, rolling his eyes. "What kind of genius decided 21 was the best age to start drinking, anyway? What a stupid law."

"It's not stupid," America defended. "and I don't make the laws, but I do follow them. It wouldn't be heroic to expect my people to uphold the law if I'm not willing to."

"America is correct." Germany agreed. "Rules are necessary to maintain order and structure. When they're not followed, society falls into chaos."

Romano snorted, opening his mouth to argue, but America interrupted. "What's the drinking age at your place, Germany?" he asked interestedly.

"In Germany the legal age for alcohol consumption is 16 for wine and beer, 18 for hard liquor."

"Wow, really? That's so young! What about guns, then? Or cigarettes?"

"18 to smoke, and for possession of low-caliber handguns if you meet requirements and have the proper license."

"Huh, how about you guys?" the American asked, looking between the Italy brothers.

"Ve~, we don't have any age limit on smoking, either~." North Italy answered, leaning on the table.

"18 for guns, though." South Italy added.

"That seems to be the only thing you have a restriction on." America teased, poking Romano, who responded by kicking him under the table.

"Cheh, we're just not as uptight as you two, jerk."

"Ow, hey." the American rubbed his shin, pouting. Then he grinned, slowly. "So...what are your guys' age of consent?"

"Consent for what?" Germany asked, looking puzzled.

"Oh, oh! 14!" North Italy announced proudly. "We can have sex at 14!"

"Why do you need to know, bastard?" Romano demanded, scowling.

"Just curious!" America answered, smiling innocently. "So, how about you, Germany?" he asked, turning to the other blond.

Germany blushed deeply, looking uncomfortable. "This isn't an appropriate topic of discussion." he said, looking down at his hands, folded in his lap.

"Aw, c'mon. It's just a question! It's not like I'm asking you to sleep with me." the other nation coaxed. Romano was torn between hitting the idiot or taking advantage of the potato-bastard's obvious discomfort. He did both, kicking the American and turning to the German with a scowl.

"Dammit, answer the stupid question you potato-sucking jackass, or he'll never shut up." he ordered.

"You know, that's going to bruise if you keep it up." America frowned, examining his leg.

"You can take it, bastard."

"Of course I can! Just sayin'." the blond grinned, and turned back to the German expectedly. "So?"

Germany sighed deeply. "14." he admitted quietly, trying to will away his blush.

"Wow, really? Man, even France's is 15, and I thought _that_ was young."

"Ve~, what about America? What are your rules for all those things?"

"18 for consent in most states, but sometimes 16, depending where you go." America answered readily. "18 for cigarettes and guns, too."

"So you can smoke, shoot and have sex before you can drink?" Romano shook his head in disbelief. "What do you bastards have against alchohol?"

"Um...you know, that's a good question. I'm not really sure." America responded, furrowing his brows."I haven't really thought about it before."

"It is kind of strange, America." the younger Italian agreed.

"It makes no difference as long as the law is followed." Germany stated.

"Yeah, I'm not going to worry about it." America agreed, and held out his cup to Romano."Fill me up, Romano?"

"Do it your damn self, bastard." the other growled.

"I would, but I'm worried about my suit~, Romano! Well, actually," he amended, looking down at himself, "The tie might be ruined, but I think the suit might be ok, it looks dark enough to hide coffee stains."

"Ve~ noooo!" Feliciano wailed, horrified. "That would be very bad, America~! Very, very bad!"

"If you spill _anything_ on that suit, bastard," Romano snarled, angrily swiping the cup and filling it halfway,"I will strangle you with your _own damn tie_." He slammed the cup down in front of the blond.

"Okay, Romano!" America smiled, taking a sip. "I'll try not to. Thanks for the coffee!"

"You'd better do more than _try_, dammit. And don't expect it to become a habit. I just did it for the suit's sake, bastard."

"Whatever you say, Romano~!" the American laughed."So...when do we eat?"

* * *

_AN: Man, when **do **__they eat? America's got to be seriously starving. Except for the biscotti he hasn't eaten in 10 chapters, and you know he skipped breakfast._

_If you're curious, their ages are given as N. Italy / Germany: 20, America: 19, S. Italy: 22-23ish. The laws listed are true for the most part, though Germany has a lot of quantifiers on their laws (14 is age of consent unless the partner is over 21, etc. etc. etc., and similar conditions apply to gun laws). Alot of Germany's laws are like that, I'd hate to be a lawyer there._

_No, America is not going to get drunk. _


	18. Finally!

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

_People were surprisingly interested in America's laws on alcohol. I did a lot of research on that for the chapter, but since the actual reasons for it turned out to be complex and bizarre (mostly, but not exclusively, involving archaic English law- we're talking feudal times stuff here; a lot of propaganda, and MADD); motivated not by health or safety or other practical reasons so much as political. The whole thing reads more like a parody or a Monty Python skit than anything else._

_I personally don't have a problem with the law, for all that I think it's silly. But I quickly realized that summing all this up would take 3+ rather long, ridiculous paragraphs, and this is a story more than a treatise on American Law._

_If you're curious about the exact reasons in detail, feel free to PM me- but expect an essay in return._

* * *

The food finally did arrive, about 10 minutes after the wine ("Oh thank _God_." America moaned). Several large serving dishes (and one small one containing potato stew, which made Feliciano beam at his brother. "Your face is pissing me off, bastard." Romano grumbled). were arranged upon the table, and the servers left discretely after assuring Romano that dessert would be out when they were ready for it.

Romano dished a portion of of everything (except for the stew- wouldn't want him catching whatever the potato-bastard had that made him crave potatoes all the damn time) onto America's plate. Feliciano did the same for Germany, after which the brothers served themselves.

"Pasta, pasta, pastaa~" the younger sang as he filled his plate.

"We can all see it's pasta, idiot." his brother complained.

"Ve~, sorry. It just looks so good!"

"Of course it's good. I chose it, moron."

America, unable to wait any longer now that the food is in front of him, dug right in. He was wolfing down his third bite in 5 seconds and reaching for the next, when a hand closed tightly on his wrist, halting his progress.

"_What do you think you're doing, asshole_?"

He looked up to see the Italys watching him with horror- Romano obviously pissed, and Feliciano trembling, tears welling up ("Ve,ve,ve, make it stop~, brother!" he wailed).

"Whu-"

"Don't talk with your mouth full, idiot."

Swallowing quickly, he asked "What's wrong?"

"You can't eat it like that."

Puzzled, America looked down at his food. "How am I supposed to eat it, then?" he asked, brows furrowing in confusion.

Romano leaned over, and stole his fork. "Give me that, dammit."

"This," he says, deftly scooping a forkful of food, "is _c__uscus estivo,_ couscous with herbs and vegetables. It's a pasta," he explained at America's curious look,"it's been a staple in South Italy ever since it we got it from Arabia." He lifted it to America's lips, holding his other hand underneath the fork to prevent spillage. "Open your mouth." he ordered. The other leaned forward, taking the bite. As he started to chew, though, Romano grabbed his chin, halting him. "Stop. Now close your eyes." With a confused glance, America obeyed. The half-nation relaxed his grip, but left two fingers under the blond's chin."Just do what I tell you to, when I tell you, alright? I'm going to teach you how to eat. Understand?" America nodded, eyes still closed.

Germany watched this exchange with interest. This was one lecture he'd never received from North Italy. He decided to try it as well, and took a bite of his own couscous, closing his eyes and following Romano's instructions along with the other blond. Hopefully it would give him insight into Italy's love for food (especially pasta).

"Good." Romano nodded, and continued. "Now, chew slowly- no, dammit, slower- ok. Pay attention to the flavours spreading over your tongue." He leaned closer, voice low and hypnotic as he went on. "Taste the herbs; sweet, aromatic mint and fragrant basil, gathered fresh from the gardens. The warmth and fullness of the couscous, the richness of the wheat it's made from. Sweet tomatoes, ripened in the sun. How creamy butter, sweet and mellow, supports all these flavours, ties them together." He paused, letting it sink in, before continuing.

"Now, notice the textures. How the grains of couscous are light and fluffy, the tomato pulp soft and moist. Feel the smoothness butter and olive oil bring to the whole." The half-nation spoke slowly, giving the other time to process his words. He could tell it'd gotten through when America's confused expression cleared, and he swallowed, opening his eyes to beam at Romano.

"That was amazing, Romano!" he effused. "You were right, it made a really big difference in the taste! Do that with everything!" he demanded enthusiastically, pointing to his plate.

"Don't talk nonsense, stupid." Romano answered, releasing the taller nation and dropping America's fork back onto his plate.

"Aw, c'mon!"

"No means no, jackass."

"Aw. Well, at least tell me what they are, then? I don't know what any of this is, aside from, you know, pasta and salad and stuff."

The Italian sighed. "_Fine._" He leaned over, indicating each dish with his own fork as he named and described them, "_Spaghetti con melanzane_, spaghetti with eggplant, sprinkled with pecorino and parmesan. Cheese." he added, seeing the American's puzzled frown. The blond nodded in understanding, and he continued. "The salad is fennel and artichoke, with raisins and cherry tomatoes, dressed with a yogurt-based dressing. The couscous I just explained, and you already know what _bruschetta_ is, right? They have that in America."

"Uh..." he answered hesitantly, head tilted in thought."Looks like...some sort of bread with stuff on it. Like half a sandwich, maybe?"

Romano sighed again, rolling his eyes. "It's grilled Italian bread, moron. They come with all kinds of toppings, but these are topped with a mixture of tomatoes, olive oil, fresh basil, wine vinegar and mozzarella. Which is a cheese." He added dryly.

"I knew that!" America protested, pouting. "I have it on pizza all the time."

"Seems to be the only thing you know, idiot."

"I know lots of stuff! Just not about Italian food. Since, you know, I'm not Italian." he responded, sticking his tongue out at the half-nation."But this all sounds really good. Can I eat, now?"

"Knock yourself out." Romano gestured dismissively. "Just make sure you eat like a human being, idiot."

"Mmm!" America responded amiably, mouth already full.

"Ve~, where did you learn to eat in such a horrible way, America?" Feliciano asked curiously, already halfway through his own plate.

America swallowed, before answering, "You know, I'm not quite sure. I just always have, I think." he gave a half shrug, and looked down at his plate. Taking another bite, he chewed it thoughtfully for a moment, and then he made a sound of realization in the back of his throat. "Oh!" he started, pausing to swallow quickly when Romano shot him a warning look, "I know when it started!"

"Yeah? How?"

"Well, when I was a kid," he started, staring at his plate, absently twisting spaghetti strands around his fork,"and England's colony, whenever he came over he used to cook for me."

The Italians both winced (Romano snorting disgustedly and Feliciano with a plaintive "Ve~"). Even Germany gave him a wryly sympathetic half-smile. He huffed amusedly at their reactions.

"Exactly." He went on. "He can't cook to save his life. Some of that stuff I was sure would kill me. But," he put his chin in his hand looked back down at his plate, still playing with his spaghetti,"he was always so proud of it, you know? And he looked so happy to be cooking for me, so...well, I didn't want to say anything. Didn't have the heart, you know? But it was so, so terrible; really, _really_ awful, that if I tried to eat it the regular way I wouldn't be able to hide how awful it really was. So I started bolting it, 'cause if I could swallow it quickly without stopping to really _taste_ it, I could keep it down. Oh man, I used to get _so sick_." he chuckled nostalgically. "But the look on his face was worth it. He was so pleased I'd enjoyed it. And after a while, I stopped getting sick, and it didn't seem to taste so bad anymore. I mean," he amended, "it was _always_ bad, but I didn't notice it so much. And now I can eat pretty much _anything._" he added proudly.

The table was silent for a moment, America lost in reminiscing, the other three with one thought crossing their minds: _That explains __**so much**__._

"That reminds me," the blond said, coming out of his memory-induced haze, "you might want to steer clear of England at the next meeting, Romano."

"Why would I go to the stupid meeting, bastard? And if I did, why would England care?"

"Why wouldn't you go? I'll be there!" the American informed him. "And England's kind of pissed 'cause I told him you have better taste than him, and 'cause you got me into a suit and he's been trying to do that for decades."

"...So? You're _always_ there, and I almost never go. Why would that suddenly change, moron?" the Italian asked. _Though, I've got some things I'd like to take up with the brow-bastard myself_, he thought darkly.

"'Cause if you don't come, I won't be able to see you! We won't be able to hang out!" the nation pouted. "You _have_ to come, Romano~! It won't be any fun without you!"

"It's _work_ moron, it's not supposed to be fun."

"Pffft, it's always fun with the hero. And if you're there, it'll be doubly fun, 'cause you're a hero too!" America announced as if this was self-evident.

Romano opened his mouth to berate the idiot, but Feliciano interrupted. "You're a hero too, Romano? Ve~, that's great!"

"Yeah, Romano's _amazing!_" America answered eagerly."You sho- Ow!" he yelped, having been on the recieving end of a particularly vicious kick under the table. The elder Italian brother glared dangerously at him, uninjured hand resting over the bread knife. "You know, this couscous is really great." America said hurriedly, scooping some onto his fork."How many different kinds of pasta do you guys have, anyway?" he asked, quickly stuffing his mouth full so he had an excuse not to talk for a minute. He looked away while he chewed, flushing slightly.

To the nervous nation's relief, Feliciano unwittingly came to his rescue, happily listing off dozens of types of pasta, complete with their origins and purposes, effectively distracting the table from his mistake.

If he was careful, he might just live through the night.

* * *

_AN: I eat like America here, for the same reasons (except, you know, my mom instead of England). _


	19. Totally Not My Fault

**Disclaimer: Hetalia is not mine.**

_17 inches of snow yesterday. More comin'. Anybody want snocones?_

__

_

* * *

_

"It takes _two hours_ just to prepare the noodles to be _cooked_? And if cooking it with everything else takes another 3 hours, that's like, forever! Who can wait that long to eat?" America made a face, halfway through his third helping.

"Ve~, it's worth the wait, America!" Feliciano assured him. "We can make it for you sometime, and you'll see!"

"Who's 'we', idiot?"

"You and me, of course, Romano~!"

"Don't volunteer my services without asking. I'm not cooking for this bastard."

"But, brother~! It's been a long time since we last cooked together, it'd be fun! A lot of fun!"

"That's a great idea! You should totally cook with your brother, Romano!" America piped up, poking Romano's shoulder, "Mattie and I tried to cook together once, it was a lot of fun! Though," he admitted sheepishly, "he says I'm not allowed in the kitchen anymore. But I did pay for the repairs and replace his clothes and the couch, even though it was _totally_ not my fault."

"Don't touch me, idiot." Romano batted his hand away."I have better things to do than cook for you."

"It doesn't have to be for me." America said, "Just do it to spend some quality time with your brother! You guys could make regular thing of it, even."

"You _have_ been saying you wanted to spend more time with your brother." Germany reminded Feliciano. "This could be a good opportunity to do so."

"Ve~, yes!" Feliciano clasped his hands excitedly. "Let's make a day to cook together, brother! It'd be so much fun! Just the two of us!"

"W-why should I do such a thing with you, bastard?" Romano hunched and scowled, blushing furiously.

"Please brother! Please~! I really want to, I want to spend time with brother! Pleeaase!" Felciano begged, tears welling up.

"Cheh, I got it, I got it! _Fine, _I'll cook with you, alright?" Romano yelled, and Feliciano launched himself across the table to tackle his brother in a hug.

"Ve~, I'm so happy! Thank you, Romano! Yay!"

"G-get off me, bastard! Dammit, you're so embarrassing! And what are you bastards looking at!" he snarled at the two blonds, blushing crimson and struggling to push his brother off his lap. "Your faces are really pissing me off, dammit! Chigi!"

"Nothing, Romano!" America answered, grinning widely. "Just enjoying this awesome pasta!"

"It _is_ quite good." Agreed Germany, lips twitching as he unsuccessfully tried to suppress his own smile.

Romano scowled suspiciously at them as he pried his brother's arms from around his neck. "That'd better be all, bastards." He held Feliciano at arm's length. "Calm down, idiot. Honestly, you're always like this. Are you a moron? Don't just grab me out of nowhere, bastard."

"Ve~, sorry brother~. I'm just happy! Spending time with you makes me happy!"

"S-shut up, moron. Go and sit in your own damn seat. I'm not a chair, idiot." he grumbled, shoving his brother off his lap.

"Vehehe~, okay~!" Feliciano beamed, bouncing back to his seat. Romano turned away, grumbling under his breath as he waited for his blush to fade (just 'cause his brother was embarrassing, dammit, not at all 'cause he was kind of happy that Feliciano wanted to spend time with him so badly).

"Welp, I'm done!" America announced, dropping his fork on his now-empty plate. Germany blinked at the serving dishes, which were so bare of food they looked as if they'd been licked clean. What was America expecting to eat if he wasn't done? "That was really good. I'm so full I don't think I could eat another bite." the younger nation continued, rubbing his stomach.

"That's too bad, bastard. Guess you'll have to miss dessert." Romano remarked, sipping his coffee.

"Oooh, there's dessert too? Awesome, I can't wait!" the blond nation grinned, almost bouncing in his seat with anticipation. Romano, having expected this, just rolled his eyes; but the other two blinked at the American, nonplussed.

"But I thought you said you were full?" Feliciano questioned.

"Full of _dinner_, sure." America agreed, "But I'm never too full for dessert!"

"Your intake capacity is truly impressive, America." Germany remarked, indicating the empty dishes with a wave of his hand.

"Hehe, thanks!" the other blond grinned.

"Cheh. That's not something to be proud of, idiot." Romano informed him.

"Sure it is! Besides, I need to keep my strength up. I'm a growing boy, after all!"

Romano choked on his coffee, and stared at him incredulously. "Where the hell do you need to grow to, bastard? You're already huge, dammit. If you get any bigger, something's going to explode."

"No way! Heroes don't explode, silly."

"Ve~, here comes dessert!" the younger Italian interjected.

"Guess we'll find out."his brother muttered, under his breath.

America did not, in fact, explode. The table was cleared and dessert presented; the _t__orte di mele ed amaretti_ ("A tart made with apples layered over almond cake, drizzled with amaretto liqueur and sprinkled with sugar." Romano explained at America's insistence) along with a beautiful almond parfait and a bottle of fine rosé wine, neither of which Romano had ordered ("Our chef's speciality, with his compliments," the hostess explained as she placed the exquisitely decorated dessert on the table, "and the wine with the respects of the house." She bowed to both Italy brothers, who graciously accepted the recognition).

"I have to admit, Romano- you were right." America sighed happily, having single handedly eaten half of both the tart and parfait. "That was sooo good." He licked his lips like a lazy, contented cat, and reached for his coffee.

Romano, justifiably smug, opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by his brother.

"Ve~, America! If you're done, then you can come dance with me when they open the floor~! You'll do it, right? Say you'll dance with me!" Feliciano asked, wriggling eagerly in his seat.

"What are you talking about, idiot? We can't dance here."

Feliciano blinked at his brother, tilting his head to the side."Ve~, you didn't know? They made Saturday dance night here a few months ago. I thought that was why you wanted to come here."

"I didn't hear anything about that, bastard! I just chose this place 'cause they have the best variety of pasta!" Romano frowned. How had he not known about this? It really _had_ been too long since he'd gone out.

"Now they have dancing, too! So will you dance with me, America?" he asked, turning to the blond nation, who blinked.

"Um..." he responded hesitantly, glancing sidelong at Romano.

"What are you looking at me for, bastard? I don't care what you do. Dance with the damn _potato-bastard_ if you want, jackass." he crossed his arms and looked away.

"What about Germany? Why don't you dance with him?" America asked, indicating the other blond, who was staring at his plate, brows furrowed.

"Germany doesn't like to dance," Feliciano waved dismissively, "and I really want to dance with you, America!"

"I would dance if you asked me." Germany contradicted, frowning."It is my duty as your partner."

"Ve~, but I have some things I want to discuss with America~." Feliciano explained, "So I want to dance with him."

"I see." Germany frowned deeper and stabbed his dessert.

"Well, okay." America agreed. "But just one dance, okay?"

"Yay!" the younger Italian clapped his hands, smiling brightly. "One dance is enough," he assured. "but if you change your mind, that's fine too!"

"I do like to dance," America admitted."though I'd rather dance with Romano."

"N-nobody asked you, idiot!"

"Just sayin'." he smiled "So when does it start?"

"Pretty soon. They're clearing the floor now, see~?" he pointed to where the staff was clearing tables and chairs, adjusting lights, and a small group of musicians were preparing to tune their instruments.

"Oh, a live band! Awesome." America exclaimed, excited now."What kind of music do they play?"

"Ve~, mostly couples dances, but they do take requests if you want."

"Well, I can do waltzes and some Latin stuff, so since it's just one dance we should be okay, right?"

"I can teach you anything you don't know if you'd like, America!" Feliciano offered, leaning over the table_. "_I have a lot of experience!"

Romano reached out to cover his brother's face with his uninjured hand, pushing him back. "Don't crawl on the table, idiot. You'll get it dirty."

"Vehe~." the younger sat back, rubbing the back of his head with an apologetic smile, before standing and bounding around the table to seize America's wrist. "Come on, America~. We can get to know each other better before the dance starts!" he urged, tugging eagerly.

"Haha, alright." America gulped the last of his coffee and stood, smiling. "Let's go, then."

"Yay!" Feliciano cheered, clinging to the taller nation's arm and dragging him off. "This will be so much fun~!"

* * *

_AN: I feel like I should apologize, but since I still have a fever (even though I'm totally in denial about it) I can't for the life of me remember what for. So, general apologies._


	20. Cats and Dogs

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

_In which it is proven that the Italy brothers share a taste for big, oblivious blonds. _

* * *

America followed North Italy out to the floor, not entirely sure this was a good idea. Sure, Feliciano was a nice guy and all, but he'd come here to learn more about Romano, who was now 400 feet away, sitting at the table he'd just left. France had always taught him not to leave his partner when he was out with someone special ("You must show them they are always first in your heart and mind, _mon chouchou_. To do anything less would lack consideration. You don't want to grow up bitter and alone like the _rosbif_, non? Your eyebrows will start to take over your face, too."). But Romano had said it was okay, so that was okay, right? And it was just one dance.

Did Romano dance? America wondered, ignoring Feliciano's chatter (and hands, which had unbuttoned his jacket, and were now inside checking out the material of his shirt). He was pretty sure he'd heard Spain bragging about it before, but he wasn't certain- he often tuned the energetic nation out, Spain tended to get repetitive. As the younger Italy's hands slid up his chest to his shoulders, down his arms, America decided Romano would make a great dancer. The older half-nation was so lithe and expressive, he-

An insistent tug at his waist brought him out of his musings. "America~, America, are you listening? Ve~, America!" He looked down to see Feliciano pouting up at him, both hands gripping his waistband tightly.

"Sorry, Italy~." He smiled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck."I got a little distracted there. What's up?"

"Ve~, it's rude to ignore your partner, America~." Feliciano chided, rising on his tiptoes to lean against the taller nation. "I was just asking if you enjoyed your visit to _Nino's_, ve~."

"Oh yeah, it was great! Nino and Amata are awesome!" America grinned enthusiastically. "Nino promised to help me with Romano, too." he confided, beaming.

"Really~? How so?" the Italian asked interestedly, toying with the blond's tie.

"He's going to help me dress so I can keep Romano's attention." He answered, and then, "Are you sure you should be doing that? I mean, I know you don't mean anything by it, but Germany might think you're flirting with me. He seemed pretty upset, earlier."

"That's the point, silly." Feliciano smiled amiably, wrapping his arms far as he could reach around the other's neck."We're going to make them jealous, ve~."

America's frowned, puzzled. "Why would I want to make Romano jealous?"

"You like him, don't you?" he asked, resting his cheek against the blond's chest and blinking up at him innocently.

"Of course! He's awesome and amazing and really, really interesting, and I really want to get to know him better." America answered, reaching up to remove the half-nation's arms from around his neck. "But I don't see how this would help. I don't want to make him jealous, I want to make him happy. I want us to be friends."

Feliciano blinked up at him, brows furrowed. "...Friends?"

"Yep! I want Romano and me to be good friends." America said happily.

"...You want to be friends with my brother." Feliciano repeated slowly, head canted as he regarded the taller nation in disbelief. Was America _really_ that naïve? And people thought _he_ was dumb.

"Uh-huh!" America nodded as he bounced on the balls of his feet with a slightly bashful smile. "It's just...I think about him all the time. He's just so awesome and gorgeous and stuff, you know? I want to be able to hang out with him _all the time_. So, yeah. Friends." He blushed and looked down, grinning goofily at his shoes.

"Ve~." The younger Italian sighed, shaking his head. "America," he said, taking the other's wrist and leading him onto the dance floor, "you're kind of an idiot."

* * *

"What kind of idiot are you, dumbass?" Romano growled at the German sitting somberly across the table, as they watched their respective companions spin on the dance floor in each other's arms."This is all your fault. How could you let him walk off like that? I thought you said you cared about Feliciano."

"I do." Germany answered, uncomfortably.

"Really? You sure have a funny way of showing it. 'It is my duty as your partner'," he imitated mockingly, and kicked the empty chair next to him. "Real romantic, asshole."

"I simply stated the facts. It _is_ my duty to satisfy my partner's requests whenever possible."

"Is that all it is to you, bastard? 'Duty'? No wonder my stupid brother's over there flirting with the moron. America might be an idiot, but at least he's not a robot, dammit."

"What's wrong with doing one's duty? As long as all of the requirements of a romantic partnership are met, it should be satisfactory." Germany frowned. He did everything listed in the relationship guide he'd purchased at the onset of his relationship with Italy in order to make sure he did everything required of him as a boyfriend. Wasn't that enough? Was he overlooking something?

"Maybe he doesn't want to be your _duty_, asshole. Did you ever think of that? Maybe he wants to know you're with him because you want to be, not because it 'meets your requirements'. Have you ever even told him you care about him, dumbass?"

"Of course." Germany defended. "Whenever he asks, I inform him that I like him."

Romano slammed his hand on the table, snarling. "He has to _ask?_ You tell him you _like _him? What the _fuck_ is wrong with you? Did they forget to install a heart when they built you in the factory? From what I hear, even your potato-sucking brother has more romantic sense."

Germany snorted, crossing his arms. "Prussia? How is getting your ass kicked by your boyfriend's brother romantic?"

"At least he got his ass kicked for _expressing affection_, jackass. When's the last time you embraced Feliciano? Or does he have to ask for _that_, too?"

Germany frowned and averted his eyes, shifting guiltily. Romano's jaw dropped. "Oh, that is _it._ I'm going to _kill_ you, asshole!" he lunged across the table, hitting Germany square in the chest, the force of impact shattering the blond's chair, sending them crashing to the floor.

* * *

"So why do you want to make Germany jealous?" America asked, smoothly leading the half-nation into a reverse turn.

"Ve~." Feliciano sighed. "It's just... I know Germany cares about me." He paused, following the taller nation into a promenade."I know it, I do. He takes really good care of me." he insisted.

"Okay, I gotcha." nodded the other, spinning him out, and back in again."But that doesn't really answer the question."

Feliciano bit his lip, eyes lowered. "Well...I_ know_ he cares about me, here." he touched his temple as America lead him into an underarm turn."But, here..." he pressed the hand to his chest, "it doesn't always feel like it." The other made an understanding noise, encouraging him to continue. He tilted his head, considering his words. "He tells me he likes me when I ask him, and he hugs me when I ask, but...only when I ask." America nodded, moving them backward across the floor. "It's just..." he gripped the taller nation tightly, tears welling up. "He never does anything like that on his own. Even when he kisses me, he does it because a book told him to. It...it's like he thinks it's his _job_. He says it's his _duty_ as my partner, but...I don't want to be _work, _ve~."

"Sometimes..." he confessed quietly, gazing unseeing at America's tie as they swayed, "sometimes I wonder if he's with me because he _wants_ to be, or if he feels he _has_ to be."

They danced in silence for a few moments, then Feliciano sighed deeply, and looked up at his partner, forcing a cheerful smile. "Ve~, so when he gets jealous if I flirt with other people, it makes me feel like he _really_ cares, not just thinks he has to act like he does."

America lightly twirled the small Italian as he considered this."Have you told Germany any of this? How you feel?"

"Ve~, I've tried, but...I don't think he understands." Feliciano confessed. "He just says things like 'What kind of foolishness are you talking about now?' or 'You should already know how I feel.' or 'I'm not good at that sort of thing'." he recited, imitating Germany's serious tone. "And I'm scared to keep talking about it after he says those things, because...what if I'm wrong? Or right," he added, frowning."I lost track of which. But either way, ve~."

"Well," America said thoughtfully as they turned,"if it helps, Mattie says Prussia says that Germany's head-over-heels for you."

"Really?" The Italian brightened a little.

"Yep! Well, he said it with a lot more cussing, but still."

"Ve~." the half-nation smiled, more genuinely this time.

"Would you like me to say something to Germany?" America asked, dipping Feliciano low."It might be easier for him to understand if it comes from someone else, you know? Plus, I'm pretty straightforward."

Feliciano looked up at him in surprise. "Ve~, you would do that, America?"

"Of course!" America assured him, "Anything for Ro-" whatever he was about to say was interrupted by a loud crash on the other side of the restaurant, causing them both to look over to where Romano was straddling Germany's chest, shouting threats and curses as he tried to pound the struggling blond's head in with a broken a chair leg. "Shit." America swore, slinging Feliciano over his shoulder as he ran for the fray.

"Ve~, we should never have left them alone." Feliciano moaned.

* * *

_____I'd intended for Romano and Germany to have a semi-civil conversation for once...but Germany sucks at tact. _

_____AN: _Listen to France, America (and I can't believe I'm saying that). Even if they say it's okay, it's never okay. Even if they **think** it's okay, it's better to play it safe. Showing your devotion is the first step to a trusting relationship!

___And Germany- we know you're trying hard, but put down the rulebook and pay attention to your lover. He'll teach you anything you need to know. _

___'**mon chouchou'**: loosely translated, 'my precious blue-eyed boy', among other things (because the French like to make their language work for them). _**'rosbif'**: a mildly derogatory slang term for the English, as I'm sure you guessed.

_The dance scene of this chapter brought to you by Anastasia's 'Once Upon a December', for no discernable reason._


	21. Importance of Being Earnest

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

_Since work has picked up and I'm putting in a lot of overtime, this is brought to you mostly transcribed from the backs of shipping manifests and tickets. I'm going through major writing/posting withdrawals, though, so I didn't bother to smooth it out. Sorry for the rough quality. Enjoy it anyway, dammit!_

__

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* * *

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Romano was so focused on his task that he didn't notice the arrival of the others until America's arm wrapped around his torso, pulling him bodily off of Germany. "Let me go!" He yelled,"I'm gonna kill him!" Writhing and cursing, he strugged to reach the blond, whom America had hauled to his feet, but America held them both fast. Feliciano wailed in the background, unable to decide who he should go to the aide of first.

About that time the hostess arrived with the restaurant manager in tow to see if the Italys required any assistance. "It's all under control, thanks." America assured them, holding a struggling Romano under one arm and a somewhat dazed and ruffled Germany at the end of the other, and flashed them a megawatt smile. They blinked, blinded by heroism."There's just been a little disagreement over soccer."

"Football, asshole." Romano growled, and at the same time Germany corrected automatically, "It's football." Concerned faces cleared, and shooting Germany politely disapproving looks, they both expressed the restaurant's full support and understanding, telling them not to worry about the damages and encouraging America to let them know if they needed _anything_.

He thanked them, and asked for some chocolate ice cream ("Gelato, idiot." "Haha, chocolate gelato, then."), which they promised to bring out right away.

As they left, America got down to business. "Go to the kitchens and make up another ice pack, and take it to the men's room." he instructed Feliciano.

"Okay, ve~." Felciano saluted and obeyed, happy to have something to do.

Setting Germany down and checking him over, he was relieved to find him relatively unharmed aside from a rapidly swelling bump on his left cheekbone, just below his eye. "I'm fine." Germany stated stoically, straightening his clothes and trying to smooth his hair back into place.

"Yeah, you're alright. That's gonna be a nice bruise, though." America informed him as he prodded at the tender area, making Germany wince. "Wait in the men's room for the ice, okay? Keep it on that bruise for 15 minutes, or you'll have a nice shiner. I'll come by later to check on ya, ok?" Germany nodded, glancing somewhat embarrassedly between the two before removing himself to the men's room.

Turning his attention to the Italian under his arm, America set him down, leaving a hand on his back. As soon as his feet touched the floor Romano spun, punching the taller nation square in the stomach. "Ow." the blond winced. "Okay, I deserved that."

"Damn right you did, jerk." Romano crossed his arms, looking away with a scowl. "You should have let me kick that bastard's ass, dammit."

"Maybe." America conceded, pulling out a chair and urging Romano to sit. "I could have done that. But if I had, then your brother would be upset, and if your brother wasn't happy then you'd be unhappy, and if you're unhappy then I'm unhappy too, so really I didn't think it was a good idea."

"_I'd_ be happy to teach that bastard a lesson." Romano muttered, sulking. America just smiled, settling into his seat and leaning his arms on the table. They sat in silence until the hostess came with the gelato (which America took with a beaming smile and cheerful "Thanks!", causing her to blush and stammer a reply before she fled with an apologetic look at Romano). Romano snorted as America reached for a spoon.

"I swear your stomach is bottomless."

"It's not for me." he replied, adding the spoon and placing it in front of Romano "It's for you. You're obviously upset, and ice cream always makes me feel better when I'm upset."

Romano scoffed, but accepted the dessert. Again conversation ceased, America watching silently while he ate. The gelato was making him feel a little better, Romano reluctantly had to admit.

After a few bites, he brought up something that had been bothering him.

"You lied."

"Hmm?"

"What you told them, about why we were fighting. You lied. I thought you didn't do that."

"I didn't lie." America rolled his eyes. "I _obfuscated_. We _did_ have a disagreement about soccer, remember? I just didn't clarify what this _specific_ argument was about."

Romano just stared at him for a moment, spoonful of gelato halfway to his open mouth.

"That's going to melt if you don't eat it."

"I do not understand how your brain works." the Italian grumbled, sucking on his spoon. A few more spoonfuls, and then, "Aren't you going to ask?" he muttered, sulkily.

"Hmm?"

"Aren't you going to ask what we were fighting about, dammit?"

America gave a half-shrug, settling his chin in his hand. "I figure it's probably something to do with Germany treating his relationship with your brother like a job."

"...how do _you_ know about that, asshole?"

"We talked about it while we were dancing." America stated, and mistaking Romano's frown for confusion, continued, "I asked why he wanted to make Germany jealous. He said that even though he knows Germany cares about him, sometimes it doesn't feel like it, 'cause Germany has to be prompted to to show affection and stuff, so he makes him jealous so he knows Germany cares. He seemed kind of upset about it, actually."

Romano, whose grip on his spoon had steadily tightened over the course of this explanation, slammed his hand down on the table. "_Chigi!_ I'm going to _kill_ that potato-bastard!" he rose, ready to storm the restrooms, but America's arm shot out, holding him back. He cursed and struggled, trying to get away.

"Romano. _Romano_." the blond called urgently from his seat, trying to get through to the furious half-nation. He turned him around, taking him by both wrists. "Romano, wait." Romano pulled against his hold, kicking him in the shins and swearing mindlessly as he tried to get free to wreak vengeance on his brother's idiot boyfriend. Realizing a different approach was needed, America pulled him close, trapping the Italian's legs between his knees, wrapping an arm around his torso to pin both arms to his sides, and sliding one hand behind Romano's head, pulling him down so they were face to face, pressing his forehead to the smaller nation's. Romano stilled, eyes widening in shock.

"W-what are you doing, bastard?" he asked shakily.

"Getting your attention." America smiled, holding his gaze. Sliding his hand down to knead the back of Romano's neck soothingly, he continued, "I understand how you feel, Romano. I'd feel the same if it was Mattie. But killing Germany wouldn't fix anything, no matter how satisfying it might feel in the short term."

Romano unwillingly felt himself calm under America's ministrations. "I hate you so much, dammit." he murmured. The boy's fingers were more talented than they had any right to be, dammit, sending liquid tendrils of warmth throughout his body via his spine. He felt his eyelids lowering to half-mast, tense muscles relaxing as the nation's voice washed over him, blue eyes drawing him in.

"Mm, I know." America agreed fondly. He relaxed his grip on the half-nation's torso, and Romano's hands lifted to grip the blond's lapels tightly, leaving America's arm wrapped loosely around his waist.

"Germany really cares for your brother, Romano." the blond continued, voice low and calming. "He just sucks at showing it. And your brother adores Germany, too." Moving his hand to cup the side of Romano's face, he stroked his thumb gently over Romano's cheekbone. "So we'll have to take care of this another way, okay? I'll talk to Germany, and we'll work this out together. It'll be okay." America assured, smiling warmly. "I'll fix it, I promise."

Romano scoffed halfheartedly, muttering, "You'd better, bastard. Or else."

"You'll kick both our asses." America agreed. "I know. But I will. It's a promise, remember. One hero to another."

"Mm." They stayed that way for a moment -foreheads pressed together, America holding Romano close- then;

"Hey." America said softly.

"Hm?"

"I should go check on the others." he confessed, and stood, slipping his arm from around his waist to smoothly usher him into the seat he'd just vacated. "Are you going to be okay here for now?"

"Of course, idiot. I don't need a babysitter, dammit."

"Alright." America chuckled. With a final caress, he stepped back, letting his fingertips trail across Romano's skin. "I'll send your brother out in a few minutes."

"Whatever, bastard." Romano answered automatically, unable to look away from those blue eyes locked with his.

"Alright." the blond responded, backing away, holding his gaze. "I'll see you in a bit, then."

"Yeah."

Finally America turned, breaking the link. Romano watched until he was out of sight, a warm flush slowly creeping up his neck. "_Dammit_." he moaned, burying his burning face in his arms.

* * *

After a quick stop by the kitchens, America pushed open the door to the restroom. "Hey there. Anyone home?" he called.

Germany stood next to the counter, Feliciano pressing an icepack to the side of his face. They both looked over as soon as he entered.

"Hello America~." Feliciano greeted, and Germany acknowledged him with a nod. "We've been keeping the ice on like you said, ve~.

"That's good, it should help." America said."I think your brother could use some company, though. I left him alone out there so I could come check on Germany."

"Ve~, but..." Feliciano hesitated, looking between Germany and America.

"I'll take care of Germany, don't worry. Besides, we can talk about stuff while we're in here." America encouraged. Feliciano's face cleared in comprehension, and he smiled.

"Ve~, okay then! I'll go check on Romano~." He agreed happily. Patting Germany's shoulder, he handed the ice pack to America and trotted out.

"Here." America handed Germany one of the beers he had picked up from the kitchens. Surprised, Germany accepted it gratefully.

"Thanks." he said, clearing his throat.

"No problem." America answered."Now, let's see that." He checked Germany's injury, and nodded approvingly."Looks good. Just keep that on there for a while." he handed the icepack over, and Germany reapplied it. America joined him at the counter, leaning back against it and taking a sip of his own beer. He made a face. "I could never get into this stuff." he remarked, lifting the bottle to the light and examining it. Germany huffed in amusement.

"It is an acquired taste, I suppose." he admitted.

"Never really had the time or inclination, I guess." America responded.

"I was raised on it, so time and inclination were never an issue." Germany said, sipping his own.

"That would make a difference."

Germany nodded. They sat in silence for a few moments, one blond enjoying his beer and the other toying absently with his bottle.

"Italy isn't sure you care about him." America said, nonchalantly.

Germany, not having expected this, choked on his beer, inadvertently snorting it out his nose.

"Woah, careful." America grabbed some paper towels, offering them to the spluttering nation."You okay?"

After a small coughing fit, Germany nodded, mopping himself up with the towels. "He, uh...he said that?" he asked hoarsely, as soon as he could talk.

"Well," he amended, "He said he _knows_ you do but doesn't _feel_ like you do."

Germany's brows furrowed in confusion. "I don't understand. How can you know something but not... _feel_... it?" he said the word so uncomfortably that America blinked.

"You're uh...not real comfortable with the 'feelings' part there, huh?"

"I'm not very good with...that sort of thing." Germany admitted, looking down at the bottle in his hands.

"What, feelings? Like, saying 'I love you' and stuff?"

Germany blushed heavily. "_Yes._"

"What about hugging and kissing and stuff? Like, if I hugged you right now, would you freak out?"

Germany buried his face in his hand, blush spreading down his neck. "Um." was his strangled reply.

"Huh. You can do it if you're asked, though?"

Germany nodded.

"And if it's written down?"

"If it's listed in a relevant source as the proper procedure for a specific situation, yes." Germany responded, a little more confident now that they were back to data-related topics.

"Like, textbooks and 'How To' stuff, you mean?"

"Yes."

"That's...kind of a problem." America frowned. "Books about relationships and love and stuff are notoriously awful."

"So I am learning." Germany sighed.

"Could you take advice from an expert, or something? Like a teacher?"

Germany considered this. "Yes. That would be an acceptable alternative."

America already had his cell phone up to his ear before Germany finished his sentence. "Who are you calling?" Germany asked warily.

"Just calling in some backup." America answered. He hated to admit it, but this is out of his area. They needed an expert. "We need someone who's good with emotions and stuff. Hey! Once sec, putting you on speakerphone." he pressed a button on his phone, setting it on the counter.

"_America_. What in heaven's name did you do to England this time?" France's voice came through the speaker, to Germany's horror. "He's been ranting on the other line for almost an hour. Of course, he's drunk, so all I've been able to make out is your name, and something about you joining the mafia and getting into Romano's suit, or Romano getting into yours, or possibly something about zoos, I'm not sure. He seems even more upset than usual. Is there something you'd like to tell me, _mon chou_?"

"You called _France?_" Germany hissed in America's ear, panicked.

"We need an expert, and he's the best there is. Trust me, we need his help." America whispered back. Germany ground his teeth, and nodded resignedly.

"Very well. But-"

"I know, I won't tell him who it's for." America reassured him. Raising his voice again, he called to France. "Look, France, forget about Iggy. This is way more important. A friend of mine here needs some advice about love."

"Ohoho, a 'friend', hmm?" France's voice, formerly paternally patient, turned delighted. "Don't tell me someone has finally caught your eye? My little America is finally feeling the sweet pangs of love, no? How wonderful! Ah~, my influence wasn't too late! And here I was beginning to think you'd spent too much time with that repressed idiot. _Such_ a relief. I cannot _wait_ to tell your brother and England. My little boy won't die a virgin~!"

"Hahaha! Sorry to disappoint you, France- but it's really not for me."

"Mhmmm, very well." France humoured him, amused. "Tell me what your 'friend' is having trouble with, and I'll advise you."

"Well," America started, oblivious to the irony in France's tone, "I guess the main problem is that my friend has trouble expressing affection unless he's prompted. Or reads instructions out of relationship books and stuff." (France scoffed derisively) "So his, uh, partner sort of feels like my friend treats their relationship like a job, and isn't sure how he really feels about stuff."

"Ahh." France sighed, sounding more serious now. "This is about Germany and North Italy, yes?"

"Uh." America traded confused glances with Germany. "How...?"

"The younger Italy has been coming to me for advice for some time." France informed them. "I've been waiting for the day when his emotionally-stunted beloved would wise up and seek me out as well."

"Italy's been asking you for advice about our relationship?" Germany asked, disgruntled.

"Oh yes, for _quite_ some time, the poor boy. He's _desperate_ to get your attention."

"...How is it I did not know about this?"

"Because, my dear Germany- you are an idiot, _sans doute_. Completely and utterly oblivious to your dear love's feelings, as well as your own. Darling Italy is hardly subtle in his approach, but alas, it has yet to penetrate your thick head."

Germany pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why didn't he just _tell_ me?"

"Has he not? Think back on it- hasn't he asked you, again and again, if you like him? _Begged_ you not to forget him? To tell him how you feel about him?"

"Well, yes." Germany confessed, feeling wretched. "But...he should already _know _how I feel. Almost all of our time is spent together. I work hard to ensure that he has everything he needs, and give him almost anything he asks for. I shouldn't have to _say_ anything. My actions should make things clear. Are the words really so important?"

"Hey, Germany." America said, bumping the other blond's shoulder. "If it's _not_ important, why is it so hard for you to say?"

Germany stopped, pondering this. "...You may have a point."

"America is correct. Now, Germany- do you see? Do you begin to understand? Fortunately, there is an easy solution to your problems."

"There is?" Germany asked, brightening somewhat.

"Indeed. It is quite simple, in fact. Wherever you are right now, you must strip and-"

_"France._" America scolded."Be _serious_. This isn't the time to mess around. He really needs your help."

"Ah~, you're no fun. But very well, very well. You're right, of course. I shall be serious." (Germany, who had gone very pale and wide-eyed, breathed a sigh of relief. He had not been looking forward to streaking through the restaurant.)

France continued more seriously, "It is good that you try to meet Italy's needs. Yes." he affirmed, adding, "But you must remember that your lover has _emotional_ needs, too, non? These also must be met. To do this, you must learn to express your feelings more openly; through words, yes, and through physical affection, as well. Are you following?"

"I am, but," he looked down, shamefaced, "I'm not sure _how._"

"That's why we're here to help, buddy!" America encouraged, slapping his back. Germany, already in over his head, wasn't sure if he should be grateful or afraid. He settled for resigning himself.

Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders. "Alright. What do I have to do?"

"You must learn to be more spontaneous. To follow your heart and act on the emotions that well up whenever you see your beloved. To act without thinking, purely on impulse and desire!"

"Like me!" America grinned.

"Don't say such things, America. We're trying to help him, not scare him off."

"Aw, hey. I'm not that bad, am I?"

"I'll do whatever I must do in order to work this out."Germany stated determinedly. "Even if it means being more like America." he added, shuddering.

"We won't have to go that far, have no fear." France reassured. America pouted. "But I'm afraid the problems between you and your dear Italy will not be solved with a simple phone call. The both of you will have to meet with me so that we can address these issues more directly. On a regular basis, in fact. Are you willing to do that, Germany?"

"I said I'd do whatever I must, and I meant it." Germany nodded."If this will help Italy understand how I feel, then I'll do it. I want him to be happy."

"Very good!" France applauded on the other end of the line."Let me get my appointment book. Let's see..."they heard the sound of pages being flipped. "Aha! I have Wednesday evenings open from 4-7, or Sundays from 10-noon. Which would you prefer?"

"Both of our schedules are clear on Wednesdays." Germany answered, pulling his own day planner from an inside pocket and making notes."How many sessions will this take?"

"You know Italy's schedule offhand?" America questioned, leaning curiously over Germany's shoulder to watch.

"I make both our schedules." Germany answered indifferently. America hummed in understanding, and propped his chin on the other's shoulder.

"Four sessions to start. We'll evaluate your progress on the fourth, and decide where to go from there." France stated.

"Alright." Filling out his schedule accordingly, he slipped it back inside his jacket."We shall see you on Wednesday, then." He stated, and made to leave.

"Hey hey hey." America caught his arm, holding him back."Hang on there, cowboy. We're not done yet."

"We're not?" asked Germany, confused.

"Germany," America said patiently, "there's two upset Italians out there, one who wants to tear your face off, and the other who thinks you're treating this whole thing like work. If you go out there and tell them you've made an _appointment_ to _work_ on it, I don't think that'll improve matters much right now. We need something more, something to show them you're serious about this. That you're really trying, here."

Germany's shoulders slumped. _Damn_. America was right. He _was_ serious about fixing this, but setting appointments would hardly convince the others. He needed to show Italy that there was more to his efforts than just fulfilling his obligations. "But what? What can I do that would prove my intentions?" he asked, utterly at a loss.

"Well, why don't you tell him you love him?" America suggested. "That seems to be the main issue here, and since it's hard for you to say I think it'd be the best way to show them you mean it."

"Very good, America!" France praised, causing the other two nations to jump, having momentarily forgotten he was still on the line."I'm so proud! Perhaps you're not a total loss, after all. Germany, he's _absolutely_ correct. There must be proof, you must provide Italy with a token of your intentions, through _une déclaration d'amour- _a declaration of love!"

"I have to tell him I lo...l..._like_ him?" Germany stuttered, mortified. "In _public_?"

"_C'est une cloche_!" France muttered under his breath. "_No._ You must tell him you _love_ him, as soon as you see him, in public or out. Anything less would be a gross insult, and completely undermine our attempts to prove you're serious about this. Better say nothing at all than ruin everything by saying you _like_ him. What is _wrong_ with you?"

"Aw, c'mon," America defended, putting a supportive hand on Germany's shoulder. "Don't be so hard on him, he's trying his best."

"No, no, France is correct." Germany admitted. "Thank you for your concern, America. But if I'm going to do this, I must do it right. I must not make the same mistakes over again."

"Then let's hear it, Germany. Say it now, just as you will say it to Italy." France commanded.

"Right here?" the blond asked, stalling for time.

"No stalling. If I am to help you, I must know how you go about this."

"Very well." Germany stood to attention, taking a deep, steadying breath."I...I...I..."

Still holding his shoulder, America shook the other blond gently. Obviously Germany was stuck on a loop. "Keep goin'." he urged.

"I...lrgnshv." Germany muttered incomprehensibly, having covered his mouth with his hand, averting his eyes and blushing furiously.

America blinked."You what?" France sighed.

"_Mon dieu_, that was terrible." he scolded. "You can't go out there and say it like that. We're going to have to practice. America, you pretend to be Italy. Germany, you practice saying 'I love you' to Italy-America until you get it right."

"Okay!" America obliged, coming around to kneel in front of the other blond, taking both his hands (he had to reach up and pry one from over Germany's mouth). "Alright, Germany. I'm Italy. Let's hear it."

"...Is this absolutely necessary?" Germany asked, deeply uncomfortable. "And why are you kneeling?"

"'Cause Italy's really short." America answered, as if it should be obvious. True enough, he was about Italy's height when he was on his knees.

"After what I just heard, yes, Germany, this is _absolutely_ necessary. No arguments now. Practice." France ordered.

Germany steeled himself again. Looking down at America, he started, "Italy." America squeezed his hands, eyes wide. "Italy. Italy, I..."

"C'mon, you can do it." America encouraged.

"Italy, I...lhvhmhg." Germany finished in a garbled whisper. The others sighed.

"C'mon Germany, you gotta say it louder. We don't have a lot of time, here." America reminded him. Germany nodded.

"Italy," he tried again, desperately,"Italy, I l've 'y'." he choked out.

"What, are you Sweden now? You can do better than that. Make him _believe _it." said France.

"Italy, I l...l-love you" he gritted out. America nodded.

"That was better, but...try and say it like it's less painful, maybe."

"I, I, I," he cleared his throat, "...Italy, I..." he sweated, starting to hyperventilate.

"Wait, wait. Hang on. Let me talk to Germany for a sec, France." America got up, pulling the anxiety-ridden nation to the side. Taking his almost-untouched beer from the counter, he passed it to the other blond. "Here, you look like you need this." Germany grabbed it, spilling some in his haste to finish the bottle. "Woah woah," America grabbed his wrist, pulling the bottle away."Slow down there, buddy. Man, you're really shaken up about this, aren't you?" Germany grimaced, leaning on the counter as he panted.

"It...I don't..."

"Take deep breaths. We need to get you settled down." He rubbed Germany's back comfortingly. "Would it be easier for you if it was written down?"

Germany, working on slowing down his breathing, shook his head. "No. It's- the words, saying it, is..."

"Yeah, I understand." America nodded. "So, why are you doing this?"

Germany looked at him in confusion."You-, you and France said-"

"Forget what we said."America waved a hand dismissively."We're not involved in this, you are. So why are you trying so hard? Just forget about it and go on as usual. Italy will realize how you feel eventually. And even if he doesn't, _you_ know how you feel, and that's the important thing, right? He should be able to figure it out on his own. Why's it so important that you tell him?"

Germany frowned. Why _was_ it so important? He thought about Feliciano, who was always with him. Feliciano, who he worked so hard for. Feliciano, his first friend, first love, first _everything_- the one who drove him nuts, yes, but also the one who looked out for him in return- was there to comfort him, cook for him, teach him to stop and enjoy life when he was stuck in his busy, boring schedules and reports. Feliciano, whom he never wanted to see unhappy.

Who was, on some level, unhappy now. Had been for longer than he'd realized, because he'd been too preoccupied with work and schedules and doing things _right_ to pay attention to what Italy had been trying to tell him. _Germany_ was making Feliciano unhappy (damn it, Romano had been right).

_His_ Feliciano was sitting out there at that table _right now_, not knowing for sure if Germany loved him or not.

"No_. _It _is_ important." he stated, slamming the empty bottle down on the counter and straightening his shoulders determinedly."I have to tell him. He must know how I feel. _Now._" he strode out of the restroom, intent on doing just that.

"All right! Way to go, Germany! You can do it!" America cheered.

"That was impressive, America. I didn't know you had it in you. Papa France is _so _proud."

"Thanks. But I've gotta go, Romano's waiting for me at our table."

"...You left your date alone while you consorted in another room with his brother's boyfriend? I take it all back- you're an idiot. Go, now, before you lose your chance!" France berated furiously. "_Merde_, how did the two greatest lovers in the world end up with such _boneheads_? Such a waste."

"Haha!" America laughed, hanging up and rushing out the door. There was no way he was going to miss this.

* * *

_AN: Okay, little story for you guys: I realized I share some traits with Germany here. _

_Even though I'm only a year or two older, I basically raised my two brothers. Everything from changing their diapers to helping with their homework. I worked hard to help pay bills and make sure they had anything they needed; fought off bullies, went to their school meetings and sports matches, etc. If it needed to be done, I did it._

_Then one night in our early teens, I was working on a project when my little brother comes in, half-asleep and in tears. Assuming he's had a nightmare, I ask what's wrong. "I don't know if you love me," he says, sobbing. Taken aback, I ask why he would think such a thing, and he says, "You never hug me, and you've never said you love me." I assured him that he didn't need to worry about silly things like that, got him some hot chocolate and settled him back asleep. I went back to my project, but couldn't stop thinking about it. The thought that my brothers might not think I loved them troubled me._

_The next morning, knowing that he would neither remember nor admit to the incident when he was awake, I decided to ask my other brother. I could trust him to give me a straightforward answer. Indeed, he admitted that yes, he sometimes felt that way. Apparently they had both talked about it sometimes. "You've only ever hugged me once." he informed me, "When I was bawling my eyes out after I fell in the ditch learning to ride my bike when I was 7. But it's okay." he assured me. "We know you care about us, 'cause you work so hard. You're always taking care of us." _

_The look on his face when he said it, and the memory of my other brother's tears proved to me that no, it was not 'okay'. I had to fix this._

_Being of an analytical mind, I went to the library the next day to check out all the reference/psychology/self-help books I could find on the subject. They, of course, turned out to be dreck. So I decided to write my own training schedule, based on what I already knew- they wanted hugs, and for me to say 'I love you.' I practiced every day in secret, repeating the words over and over to myself (and yes, I choked on them quite a few times), starting with a whisper and slowly forcing myself to say them more clearly, so that I could say them smoothly when the time came. I blushed and shook so hard all over whenever I practiced that I felt in danger of spontaneous combustion. _

_After a few days, the time had come to put my training to the test. As I prepared to send them to school, I gave them both hugs (2.3 seconds- not so short they'd think I was repulsed, not so long it would linger awkwardly) and said the words (not smoothly, at all, but I said them). Their reactions alarmed me- one burst into tears, the other became confused and embarrassed. I was sure I'd done something wrong, but they assured me they were just happy. Relieved, I sent them on their way, went back into the house, and hid in the closet until the crippling embarrassment and humiliation went down to a more manageable level. _

_It got a little easier (but never 'easy'), over the years, and sometimes I still have to practice when a family gathering is coming up, but they have both separately assured me that it meant the world to them, so I've always felt it's worth it. _

_I haven't thought about all this for years, but writing Germany was giving me deja-vu, and it took me a while to realize why. Anyway. I'll probably totally delete this AN later. *coughs*_


	22. Going, Going, Gone!

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

_I should have called this fic 'The Longest Day'. Man._

* * *

The Italy brothers sat in silence, sipping coffee and nibbling at the amaretto truffles the hostess had brought when the servers had come to clean up the broken chair. Feliciano was getting increasingly nervous. His brother had not said a word to him since he'd arrived back at the table. Hadn't even looked at him, really. It was very uncharacteristic. Normally he would have broken the silence himself, but, he knew Romano was upset with him, and he knew they would just start arguing again, and the look on his brother's face was one he hadn't seen before. It told him in no uncertain terms that Romano would talk when he wanted to, and didn't need any interruptions in the meantime, thank you.

Just when he couldn't stand the silence any longer, his brother spoke up. "Why didn't you tell me, idiot?"

He toyed guiltily with the handle of his cup. "Ve~, I wanted to talk to you about it, but...you're always complaining about Germany, so...if I had said anything, you would have tried to hurt him. Or tried to convince me to leave him. But I love him, Romano. I want to stay with him always, ve~. I just don't know if he feels the same way."

"Of course he does, moron." Romano sighed, rubbing his eyes. He couldn't believe he was saying this. This day had been so crazy, nothing that happened would surprise him anymore. "Anyone with eyes can tell he's always been crazy about you. The potato-bastard just doesn't know how to show it, dammit. That moron's terrified of anything having to do with feelings. Remember that whole thing where he was being all friendly with Russia? You were sure he was going to forget you, so you ran to his house in the middle of the night?"

The younger Italian smiled. He'd ended up with a bloody lip and Germany had passed out, but that was one of his best memories of his friendship with Germany. "He had a hard time saying it then, too~."

"Right, dammit? And now you guys are together, idiot, so it's going to be worse, 'cause the feelings run deeper." He reached across the table, poking his brother's forehead. "So stop worrying about it, dammit. He loves you just fine."

"But..." Feliciano bit his lip, gripping his cup tightly. "He never _says_ it. How do I know for sure_?_"

Romano frowned, opening his mouth to answer, but was interrupted (yet another theme for tonight, it seemed) by a yell from across the restaurant.

"Italy!"

"Ve~, Germany?" Feliciano turned, catching sight of Germany striding purposefully across the restaurant. He frowned, worried, and stood. "Germany? Is everything okay?"

"Italy," Germany panted, arriving to stand in front of his half-nation. "Italy." he repeated, taking Feliciano's hands in his. "Italy, I..." he took a deep breath.

"...Germany?" Feliciano asked, confused.

"Italy, I," Germany stammered, slowly turning red, "I, I, I, I...I..."

"I think the potato-bastard's broken." Romano commented disinterestedly from where he sat. "Maybe you should kick him, see if it helps."

His brother ignored this, choosing instead to tilt his head worriedly. "Germany? Is everything okay?"

"Did I miss it?" America asked eagerly as he arrived, panting from his run across the restaurant.

"I, I, I, I..."

"Ve~, Germany?"

"The potato-bastard's stuck on a loop, and my brother's an idiot." Romano informed him.

"Sweet." America breathed, looking to the pair in anticipation.

"ITALY, I LOVE YOUUUU!" screamed Germany, at the top of his voice.

The entire restaurant went dead silent.

"YAHOO! YOU DID IT!" America cheered ecstatically, leaping into the air and spiking an imaginary football. "Way to go, Germany!"

Feliciano burst into tears, flinging himself at the now-scarlet Germany, who hugged him back, looking both traumatized and happy.

Smiling ear-to-ear, America went to sit next to Romano. "Look at that, you made my brother cry, asshole." Romano complained, blinking back tears of his own. "I should kill you for that, dammit."

America laughed, slinging an arm around the half-nation's shoulders."C'mon, Romano, admit it- you're happy he's happy."

"S-shut up, jerk. The coffee just went down the wrong pipe, dammit." he sniffed. America pulled the handkerchief from his suit pocket and handed it to him. "I can't use this, it's silk, moron. It'll be ruined if it gets wet. And you'll screw up the silhouette of your suit."

"I can always get more handkerchiefs and suits, Romano." America answered. "But there's only one of you."

Romano squeezed the scrap of silk tightly in his hands, crumpling it (and completely ruining it, but he wasn't thinking about that right now). "I-"

"Hate me so much, I know." America smiled, squeezing his shoulders. They returned their attention to the pair in front of them.

Feliciano pulled back from the embrace, looking up into Germany's face with a teary-eyed smile. "I can't believe it, ve~. You actually said it. You really said it!"

"I had some help from America," Germany admitted,"And your brother helped me realize some things."

"Ve~, they did?" Feliciano turned, smiling at them both. He released Germany and came over to hug them both, an arm around each of their necks. "Thank you, so much! Really, thank you! I'm so happy!" he cried, dropping a kiss on both their cheeks before returning to Germany, leaning against the tall blond and taking his hand."You've made me so happy!"

"And that's not all." America spoke up. He looked at Germany, tilting his head to indicate the younger Italy. "Tell him the rest, Germany!"

"Ve~, what's America talking about, Germany?" Feliciano asked, looking up at his lover.

Germany cleared his throat, placing his hand over Feliciano's and looking down to meet the half-nation's gaze. "I've uh...talked to France, and he's going to help me work on learning to express my ...emotions, more effectively. We're going to meet with him on Wednesday evenings to work on it. I don't want you to doubt how I feel, ever again. I want to make you happy, Italy." he admitted, with earnest embarrassment.

Wordlessly, the younger Italian went up on tiptoes to press a kiss to his lips, then wrapped his arms tightly around Germany's neck, burying his face in the taller nation's shoulder. Germany squeezed him back, mouthing a 'thank you' to the other nations, trading a quick nod with America. Romano sniffed hard and looked away, after kicking America's ankle.

After a minute or so Feliciano pulled back, settling back down on his feet. "Ve~" he sniffed, idly smoothing out Germany's lapels, straightening his tie. "I think it's time to go." he wiped his eyes, and turned to the others. "I had a wonderful time, Romano, America. We should do this again, soon."

"D-don't ask for impossible things, idiot." Romano responded halfheartedly. His brother smiled, coming over to hug him tightly. Romano squeezed him back, muttering "Congratulations, idiot." into his ear. Feliciano pressed his face into his brother's neck with a choked sob. "Oi, you're going to ruin my suit, moron." Romano prodded him, uncomfortable."Yours, too."

"Mhm, ve~. Sorry, brother~." the other answered, pressing a salty kiss to his cheek. "I love you, too."

"Wrong guy, moron." he said, pushing his brother away. Feliciano giggled.

"Ve~, I'm going to go get our stuff from the coat check. I'll see you in the car~." he smiled over his shoulder at Germany, and left.

When he'd gone, Germany turned to Romano, clearing his throat. "I owe you an apology." he said. "And thanks. I told you I'd take good care of him, and, " he sighed, "I failed. It took you and America to help me understand that. I know I'm...not very good at expressing my affection, but-"

"But you better get good fast, jackass. If you don't..." he trailed off, warningly.

Germany nodded, a faint smile curving his lips."I will. I promise. I care- I..._love_, him very much."

"Save it for my brother, bastard." Romano grumbled.

"I'll do that." Germany nodded.

Romano grunted when a heavy weight hit his shoulder, nearly knocking him over. "What the f-" he flailed, trying to maintain his seat. "W-ah- ungh." he squirmed, looking up to find America sprawled across him. "W-what the hell do you think you're doing, idiot?" The blond didn't respond.

"Looks like he fell asleep." Germany commented, helping haul the comatose nation upright. Romano groaned, checking himself to make sure America's dead weight hadn't damaged anything. "I thought the moron's been awfully quiet." he muttered."Hey. Hey!" he called, poking America's cheek. "Wake up, jackass! What kind of moron falls asleep in the middle of a restaurant?" he asked, rolling his eyes.

Feeling like he owed America a favour or two, Germany decided to help out."It's not surprising. America hasn't slept in a few days, apparently." At Romano's frown, he added, "He was supposed to work this weekend, but he worked double shifts and skipped sleeping in order to have this evening free. He was...quite determined to see you. I understand he's been very excited about tonight."

Romano stared at the sleeping nation. He'd done that? For him?

"_Idiot"_ he mumbled.

"Do you need help getting him home?" Germany offered.

"Who needs your help, jackass? I've got this, dammit." he growled.

"Very well." the blond replied, propping America up against the table."I'd better get going, then. A good night to you both." he nodded, and left.

"Whatever, bastard." Romano muttered after him. America slumped over, landing in his lap. He looked down at the sleeping blond, and sighed."What am I going to do with you, idiot?"

* * *

_AN: Blech, unadulterated sap. Blech. I hope you're happy, bastards!_


	23. Metric, Schmetric

**Disclaimer: Hetalia- not mine. Ignore the fingerprints...**

_Okay._

* * *

Romano sighed, taking another sip of his coffee and drumming his fingers on the table, the idiot still fast asleep in his lap. After some struggling, he'd realized fairly quickly that in this position, there was no way he could get the leverage he needed to lift the much larger nation into a more maneuverable position. At least, not without breaking something vital. He'd have to wake the blond eventually, but...well...he was sleeping so peacefully, and...he just didn't feel like dealing with all the hassle of waking the idiot and lugging him around yet, dammit. It'd been a long night, he wanted to enjoy the peace and quiet while he still could.

After about 15 minutes, though, he was beginning to reconsider. His legs were starting to go numb, dammit. America shifted in his lap, murmuring something, brows furrowed. His eyes opened slowly, and he blinked, smiling sleepily up at Romano. "Hi." he said. "What are you doing here, Romano?"

"Waiting for you to wake up, bastard."

"Oh." America's brows furrowed, and he blinked again, slowly. "Have I woken up yet?"

"I should hope so, you're talking to me, idiot."

"Okay." he sighed, closing his eyes and turning his head to nuzzle into the half-nation's stomach. "That's good."

"...do that again and I'll kick you in the head, bastard."

"'Kay." America murmured sleepily, slinging an arm around his waist.

"Oi. Hey! Don't go back to sleep, bastard! You need to get up!" he ordered, poking the idiot's face. America groaned, lazily batting at his hand.

" 'M alr'dy up, 'member?"

"Oh yeah, you're up alright. But I need you to do me a favour, alright, bastard?"

"'Mkay."

"Roll over a bit. You're crushing my legs, dammit."

America frowned, protesting, "'M not fat." but rolled over as asked- right off the Italian's lap and onto the floor, falling with a resounding thud. Romano smirked.

America sat up, blinking dazedly. His hair was askew, his glasses sitting crooked on his nose from his fall. He looked up at Romano, and smiled. "Hi, Romano. What are you doing up there?"

The half-nation sighed, leaning down to fix America's glasses. "Are you always this hopeless when you're asleep, idiot?"

"I don't know." America confessed. "Am I asleeping now?"

Face, meet palm. "No, you're not 'asleeping', idiot. That's not even a word, dammit."

"Oh. That's good." the blond nodded seriously."I'd hate to miss my time with you."

"...Okay. You're obviously delirious, dammit. We need to get you home." He pulled America's arm around his shoulders, trying to haul the larger nation to his feet. Since the blond was just watching him curiously, making no effort to rise on his own, his efforts met with limited success. After a few moments of straining, Romano stopped, panting. "Hey. Bastard. A little help here?"

"Sure thing, Romano. What do you want me to do?"

Rolling his eyes, he replied. "Standing up would be a start, dammit."

America nodded, smiling. "I can do that." He folded his legs underneath him and pushed, standing unsteadily on his feet. "See?" he said proudly. Then started to sway. Romano jumped forward, holding him up.

"Oh no you don't, bastard." he said, wrapping America's arm around his shoulders and his own around the nation's waist. "Hey. Hey. America." He prodded, nudging the other with his shoulder. "Think you can walk, idiot?"

"Yep. Since I was little." America nodded. "Long time ago. Years'n'years."

"Congratulations. Now put those amazing skills of yours to work and let's go."

"I _am_ pretty awesome." America admitted, following the other's lead.

After a few steps, America started to flag, and Romano shifted him so he was supporting more of the taller nation's weight on his shoulders. "Y'know," America observed a few moments later, yawning,"If we're doing piggyback rides, you should really be on top- you're shorter. My feet are totally touching the ground, here."

Romano's face burned. "Hey, bastard. Let's play a game. You be quiet, or I'll punch you in the face."

"Okay." America agreed amiably."I bet I win."

"Game starts now, jackass."

They made it to the foyer before he was stopped by the hostess. "Is...is he all right?" she asked, glancing concernedly at the blond draped over the Italy's shoulder.

"He's fine, he's just an idiot." He assured her.

"W-would you like some assistance carrying him out? The staff would be more than happy-"

"No, no, thank you, I got it." He flashed her a smile that made her drop her gaze, blushing deeply. "Just let me know what we owe you."

"Oh, no." she shook her head."Your boyfriend already took care of everything. Didn't he tell you?"

"He's not- " Romano sighed, giving up. "No, no he didn't."

She smiled, bowing gracefully. "It's been an honor to have you with us, tonight. Your presence favours us, and we are most grateful. We hope you and your companions enjoyed your evening."

He inclined his head incrementally, returning the smile. "We did, thanks. Our compliments to the chef, and to yourself." She beamed.

"He will be most happy to hear it." Then she blushed again, and, looking around furtively, leaned forward. "I hope it is not too forward," she added, lowering her voice,"but myself, along with some of the staff, wanted to say that you two make the most _adorable_ couple. You complement each other wonderfully, and seem very happy together. We wanted to offer our best wishes." She reached into her blouse, pulling out a thick envelope. "I confiscated these from a busboy, but... I thought you might like to have them, in memory of tonight." she confessed. Frowning curiously, he took the envelope with a nod of thanks, and she bowed quickly and hurried away, blushing furiously.

He slid the envelope into his jacket pocket, making a mental note to check the contents later. Adjusting his hold on the blond, whom he was pretty sure had fallen asleep again, he hauled him out of the restaurant.

In the fresh, cool night air, America revived somewhat. He managed to stand mostly on his own, anyway, and walk, albeit a little unsteadily, following Romano back to the 'bike. Once there, the Italian fished through his pockets, pulling out his keys. "Hey." said America, feeling like he should object.

"Hey yourself, idiot. You're not driving like this."

The blond's brows furrowed. "Do you even know how to drive a motorcycle?"

Romano gave him a _look_. "_America._ I'm _Italian_."

America wasn't entirely sure what that had to do with anything, but nodded anyway. It was good enough reason for him. "Here, lean down." The half-nation ordered, and slipped the blond's helmet over his head, fastening it tight under the idiot's chin. He slipped on his own helmet, and was busy fastening it when something dark was dropped over his head. "Wha-"

"Sorry, missed." America pulled his jacket off Romano's head, settling it around his shoulders. "There. All better." he stated with satisfaction, and proceeded to zip it up.

"I can't wear this, idiot. The sleeves are too long, it'll interfere with my driving."

"Pfft, roll them up, then. I'm not getting on that 'bike until you wear it." America pouted, crossing his arms.

"...You have got to be kidding, bastard." he grumbled, slipping his arms into the sleeves, and bunching them up. "This is ridiculous, dammit."

"No it's not, it's _awesome_." America corrected. "And so are you, so you have to wear it."

"Cheh." Romano scoffed, sliding onto the seat. He paused, looking back at the blond. "Get on the bike, idiot. I'm wearing the damn jacket. Let's go."

"'Kay!" America slid on behind him, wrapping his arms around the half-nation's waist and leaning heavily against his back. "'M kinda tired." he confessed, yawning across the commlink.

"I need you to stay awake, bastard, or you'll fall off the 'bike."

"But I'm tired." the blond whined, resting his head on the Italian's shoulder. "And you're _comfortable_."

Romano took a deep breath. He was getting a headache, dammit. "_Shut up_. You need to stay awake, dammit. If you fall off I'm going to turn this damn 'bike around and run you the hell over, bastard."

America chuckled drowsily. "Okay, I'll try, if it makes you happy. I might be able to stay awake if you talk to me."

"...About what, bastard?" Romano asked warily, starting up the 'bike.

"I don't know, anything." the other answered, tightening his hold as they tore out with a roar. "Holy crap, what are you doing, 90?"

"Hell no, are you crazy? I'm going 153."

"What? No you're not." America contradicted, slightly more awake now that he'd left his stomach a mile back. "Mattie screwed with my 'bike so that it can't do more than 98, and I haven't had time to fix it yet."

"Bullshit, I'm going 153 _easy_. You don't know what the fuck you're talking about. And what, is your brother your babysitter? Who does that? Seriously."

"I'm telling you, Romano, it can't go over 98. I've tried. And he thinks he's protecting me. He says I drive too fast."

"98 is too fast? Grandmas drive faster. Shit, the _Pope_ drives faster."

"I could be wrong, I'm not up on all that Catholic stuff," America admitted, "but I'm pretty sure the Pope doesn't drive over 100 miles per hour. He's like, old. Older than dirt. Older than England, even. He'd have a heart attack. Or fall apart."

"Shut your mouth about the Pope, bastard. And it's _kilometers,_ jackass."

"How come you can talk about the Pope but I can't? And wait, what? _Kilometers?_ What the hell's that in real measurements?"

"'Cause he's _my_ Pope, idiot. And kilometers _are_ real measurements, moron. Everyone else uses them, you need to get with the program, dammit. Didn't you switch to the metric system like, decades ago?"

"Oh, pffft, _metric._" America snorted dismissively."Nobody uses that. If they did, the quarter-pounder would be called the 'four-ounce-er', and that's just ridiculous. Plus, it makes it sound small. Nobody would buy it."

"...You know what? I think it's okay for you to fall asleep, after all."

"Too late." America sighed, settling in against Romano."All this talk about food has made me hungry."

"...Can nations get tapeworm? Actually, if you ate England's food, I bet it's possible. That crap would mutate anything. You should get checked out, bastard."

"Haha, I have to get checked out all the time for work. It's standard procedure since I have to travel all over the place. I had my last physical like, 3 weeks ago. I'm fine."

"'Fine' is not the word I would use, moron. Are you sure the brow-bastard didn't like, magic the food, or anything? 'Cause really, that can't be normal."

America rolled his eyes. "I'm _fine_, Romano. I just burn a lot of energy."

Romano huffed, unconvinced, but let it go. "We're here, bastard." he announced a couple minutes later, pulling up to the house. Silence met his declaration, and he sighed, feeling the nation's dead weight at his back. How did he _do_ that? The idiot flickered in and out like a cheap neon light. Did he have an on/off switch somewhere? That would be useful to know. Then again, Feliciano was the same way, able to go from awake to asleep in the blink of an eye, without any warning; and he knew from personal experience that his brother didn't have a switch anywhere. Oh well.

He leaned hard to the side, letting America topple onto the grass, bracing his leg against the ground so he didn't follow. "Oomph." the nation groaned, sprawled next to the motorcycle. His head, and therefore his helmet, shook back and forth. "Hey, it's really dark." The helmet moved to the side. "Oh, hey, Romano's helmet. What are you doing here? You're supposed to be with Romano."

"Wow, you're right." Romano agreed sarcastically."Maybe you should take me inside his house and give me to him, bastard."

"You're totally Romano's helmet."America said drowsily."You even talk like him. I knew I made the right choice." He paused. "How come my helmet never talks?"

"It does, moron. It's talking right now."

"Wow, really? I thought that was me. Cool."

The half-nation sighed wearily. "Remind me never to let you get drunk, idiot."

"Don't worry, helmets can't get drunk. I think." Romano dismounted the bike, nudging the taller nation in the side.

"C'mon, get up. We need to get inside."

"Right, right. Romano needs you." America nodded, stumbling to his feet.

"That's right, idiot. So let's go."

"Yeah, 'cause," the blond sighed, "otherwise he won't hang out with me again. Like the suits."

"What? Why do you need suits to hang out with you, bastard?"

"Not the _suits_, silly. I need the suits to hang out with _Romano_, duh."

Romano opened the door, pushing the taller nation through. "What are you talking about, dammit?"

America stopped inside the door, leaning closer to whisper confidentially. "Romano likes me better when I wear suits. So, I'm going to buy _lots_ of suits so he'll like me _lots_ better." he nodded, satisfied.

"...You're an idiot."

"Haha, you really _are_ Romano's helmet!"

"Take your helmet off, moron." Romano ordered, slipping his own off as he did so. America obeyed, smiling as soon as he caught sight of the Italian.

"Hey, Romano! I see you got your helmet. That's good! We were just talking about you."

"Mhm, that's nice, bastard. Go sit on the couch." He took the helmet from America's unresisting grasp and pushed him towards the living room. Trusting the blond to find his own way to the couch, he went to upstairs to change and grab some bedding for the moron- there was no way America was going to be able to make it home in this state.

He came back down 10 minutes or so later, having changed into a t-shirt and shorts and carrying a pillow and some blankets. He found America curled up on the couch, fully dressed except for his shoes and fast asleep. Not even surprised anymore, Romano tossed the bedding at the foot of the couch, sitting on the coffee table and leaning over the sleeping nation. "Hey. Hey, bastard, get up." he said, slapping the other's face lightly. "C'mon idiot, you can't sleep in this, it's a silk blend. You'll ruin it." America sighed, but sat up, staring blankly. "Take off your clothes, dammit." America looked down at himself, and reached for a button. After watching him fumble ineffectually with it for a few moments, Romano batted his hand away. Quickly divesting him of his jacket, he folded it carefully, setting it to the side before starting on the shirt. He loosened the tie, pulling it off and laying it on top of the jacket while he worked on America's shirt buttons with the other hand. "I swear, you're so hopeless." he scolded. "How are you still alive, dammit?"

America smirked at him, lazily. "I don't wear suits."

Romano smacked him lightly across the head. "Smartass." America chuckled.

"It was totally worth it, though."

"What, being a smartass? Raise your arms, I can't get this off." he ordered, tugging at the shirt. America obliged, and shook his head.

"No, silly, wearing a suit. You like me better in suits." Romano scoffed, turning away to hide his blush as he folded the teal dress shirt. Ignoring the other nation, he reached for the pillow, dropping it on the other end of the couch.

"Lay down, idiot." he pushed the blond's shoulder for emphasis. America lay back, but reached out to wrap his hand around the half-nation's wrist, tugging it lightly to get his attention. Romano paused in his actions, but didn't turn, unwilling to look him in the eye.

"I want you to like me, Romano. I really like you a lot."

Romano scowled, twisting his arm out of the other's grasp, and rubbed his wrist idly. "You keep saying that, bastard."

"I do? Good." America murmured, curling on his side. "'S true."

"Hey." the Italian leaned over, "On your back, idiot." America failed to respond, already asleep. "Dammit." Romano grumbled, crawling over his legs. "This is a _twelve-thousand dollar suit_, jackass." he complained, deftly flicking open the button on the blond's slacks. "We do not sleep in twelve-thousand dollar suits, dammit." He backed up to tug at the hems, making sure not to wrinkle the slacks as he pulled them off. "I don't care _how_ many suits you intend to buy." He shook them out, folding them carefully. Superhero boxerbriefs. Why was he not surprised?

He pulled the blanket over America, and sat down on the coffee table to put his chin in his hand, watching the other sleep. "You're such an idiot, idiot." he murmured, pulling the other's glasses off and placing them on the coffee table.

He turned off the lights as he left, picking up his helmet on the way up to his room. Tossing it on the bed, he stripped, throwing his clothes on the corner and sliding under the covers. Curling on his side, he picked up America's gift, idly tracing the icon on the back as he pondered the day's events. Finally, he sighed. "Cook for him, huh?"

Hugging the helmet to his chest, he closed his eyes, and went to sleep.

* * *

_AN: I got nothin'._


	24. Good Morning Sunshine

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. **

_I forgot to warn you guys last time- work is running into double overtime, and so weekends are the only time I have to write until things cool down. Unfortunately, last weekend was the holidays, and I wasn't able to squirm out of them this time. Between that and snagging myself a lovely stomach flu, it's taken me a lot longer than I'd like to get back to writing. The withdrawals have been brutal. So good to be back in the saddle! Sorry this one's a shorty. If it sucks, let me know, okay? I feel all rusty from the lack of writing._

_Anyway, Happy New Year! And if, you know, you use a different calendar, then hey- have a great day whenever you're living! _

****

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**

Romano woke just as the sun was peeking over the horizon, hand aching, helmet pressed tightly to his chest. Placing it on the bedstand and unwrapping his hand to find it bruised and a little sore, but otherwise fine, he left the bandages off and headed for the shower. Having washed away the last vestiges of sleep, he dressed for church, glancing at the rising sun outside. There was just time enough to get a few things done before he had to leave for mass.

One of which was returning the idiot's jacket, before he forgot. Grabbing it from where it lay draped across the foot of his bed, he made his way downstairs.

As he lay it over the end of the couch, he noticed that America had managed to kick most of the blanket off of himself and onto the floor, except for a corner he clutched loosely, arm hanging off the couch. Sighing, Romano went around the couch to re-cover the idiot. Wouldn't want him catching cold, dammit.

As he tucked the blanket in around the nation, he found his gaze drawn to the other's sleeping face. Relaxed and unguarded like this, it was amazing how young and innocent America looked. It was a reminder to Romano how much older he was than the blond. In some ways, the nation was still closer to child than man. What America had said last night had been true- he _was_ still growing. It was just that the idiot was already so large and strong and full of energy that it was easy to forget that he was still so young.

Pensively, he traced the lines of the nation's face, fingers brushing golden strands aside as he examined the blond's features. Young or not, the idiot was already remarkably attractive. Tall, handsome, strong... when he'd grown, and maturity brought definition to those soft lines, refining his frame, he'd be... beautiful. _Breathtaking_, even. Romano's chest ached. Out of his league...

Yet this powerful, well-on-the-way-to-becoming-breathtaking nation was here, with _him_, showering him with not only attention, but...but what? Romano wasn't sure how to classify the way America had been treating him. If it was someone else, he'd think they were... _interested_, maybe, but this was _America_. You could never be sure why the impulsive nation did what he did. For all he knew, the blond didn't even have a reason, himself. But it was...nice. It was making him feel...warm, and special, and...

America sighed deeply in his sleep, and turned to nuzzle Romano's hand on his face, the edges of his mouth curling up slightly. Romano huffed a little in amusement, a smile tugging at his own lips. Even in his sleep...

Slowly, his eyes were drawn to the other's mouth. Gently, he brushed his thumb over the curve of America's lips, and they parted in response. He licked his lips, unconsciously, and started to lean in, eyes fluttering shut- and froze, eyes flying open. Crap, what was he _doing_? His hand retracted as if he'd been burned, fingers curling into a fist which he pressed tightly to his chest. Heart thudding in his ears, he took a shaky step backward, only to stumble when the coffee table hit the back of his knees. He sat heavily, gripping the edge of the table tightly, eyes wide.

Dammit, dammit, _dammit,_ what the _hell_ did he almost just...? He started to hyperventilate. He didn't... hadn't...wasn't... _falling _for America, was he? _Shit_. No, dammit. It was just... _No. _His stomach churned, eyes welling up with tears. He didn't _want_ this (_but part of him did_), he didn't need this (_he didn't _want_ to need this_). It was too much, too soon, too... utterly impossible. Even if...no, _no_. He refused to even think about it. He fled the room, grabbing his jacket and bolting out the door. He'd walk to mass, it'd give him time to work off this...whatever this was, roiling in his stomach.

He walked quickly, still shaking from the shock. This was exactly the sort of shit he didn't need, dammit. Nothing good could come from this. Just pain, trouble, heartbreak, another reminder that he wasn't good enough. Would _never_ be good enough. God _dammit_. Stupid America, coming in here and fucking shit up with his stupid, idiotic smile like sunshine and eyes blue as the dawn sky he was walking under and his stupid, _stupid_ way of treating Romano like he mattered and reminding him of all the things he'd never, ever have, dammit. Like he didn't already know it before that idiot had to breeze in and shove it in his face. _God dammit_.

He swiped furiously at his eyes and sniffed, digging in his pocket for a handkerchief. He pulled out a familiar scrap of crumpled saffron silk, and stopped. What the fuck? Dammit, he must have grabbed it off his nightstand instead of one of his regular ones by accident. Wasn't that just fucking perfect. Dropping it on the cement he ground it under his heel, grinding his teeth. Stupid fucking bastard and his stupid way of worming his way into Romano's life so Romano couldn't even look at the sky or blow his _God damn nose_ without being reminded of the stupid bastard. He stomped on it for good measure.

He stomped on a few paces, and then stopped, jaws clenching. His shoulders slumped, and he sighed, turning around to go pick up the now extremely bedraggled piece of silk. Sitting on a nearby bench, he spread it over his knee, carefully smoothing it out, trying to press out the wrinkles and brush off some of the dirt. He fingered a tear, hearing America's voice in his head. '_I can always get more handkerchiefs and suits, Romano.' _

_'...I've mostly been thinking about you...'_

_'...you're very interesting.'_

'..._going to buy_ _**lots**__ of suits...'_

_'...If it makes you happy, I'll wear anything you want me to...' _

_'... got something for you...specially made! ...you can wear it everytime we go out.'_

_''Cause your opinion is important to me.'_

'_I really like you alot.'_

_'I want you to like me, Romano.'_

He gripped the handkerchief tightly, hunching over to bury his face in his hands. "...Congratulations, bastard." He muttered brokenly.

* * *

_AN: I know, right? I'll say it for you- 'You were gone for how long, and **this** is what you leave us with? You bastard!' I agree. _

_America **is **comparatively__ young, isn't he? Heck, when Romano was his age, he wasn't half as old as America is now... er, wait, what? Uh...you know what I mean. _


	25. Hold On to Your Heart

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia or it's characters. **

_Missed ya'll. Don't worry, I haven't forgotten either of my Romericas, and I certainly won't stop writing anytime soon. It might take a little longer than it used to, but I'm having way too much fun writing them to stop. This chapter might be a bit odd (I'm feelin' out of practice) but still. _

_I could tell you a story, but I think we both just want to get to the chapter. So here goes!_

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**

America woke late that morning to the smell of fresh-brewed coffee. He yawned, and stretched, groggily pushing himself up to sit, staring dazedly at the coffee table. After a moment he rubbed his eyes, blinking slowly, and turned his head incrementally to stare at the stack of carefully folded clothes that was the suit he wore the night before. He looked down at himself. "Oh, hey." He didn't remember taking his clothes off. Wierd that he'd folded them, too. He usually just let stuff drop wherever when he was tired, not worrying too much if it got wrinkled or messed up. Maybe England's constant nagging was having an effect on his subconscious? He hoped not- he wouldn't want to suddenly find himself drinking tea and growing caterpillar eyebrows. He raised a hand to check, and sighed with relief. Nope, regular, heroic eyebrows. Good. That could have been a fortune in body wax.

Texas was missing, though, but that really wasn't unusual. His glasses seemed to have a mind of their own, the ornery things. Sometimes he swore the li'l varmints were trying to get lost on purpose. Still, they were pretty damn awesome, and he just didn't feel like himself without them. Aha, there they were. He picked them up off the table and slid them on, looking around once they were settled into place. Oh, hey, this wasn't his house. No wonder he was sleeping on the couch (not that that was terribly unusual, either. He tended to drop wherever if he was tired, too, clothes or no clothes).

With a rush the previous day came back to him- oh, right, _Romano_! Romano had let him stay the night? Awesome! He was getting closer to the Italian nation already! Pretty soon they'd be best buds, for sure. He grinned excitedly, and ran a hand though his hair in an (unsuccessful) attempt to straighten out the muss. They'd had their first sleepover! It was too bad he'd slept through it, though. Still! Big step in their budding friendship. This was great!

Speaking of great, that coffee smelled like exactly what he needed right now. If it was anything as good as last night's, he was in for a treat. He bounced to his feet, heading out in search of the source of that heavenly aroma. He was sure to find his host along the way. Coffee didn't make itself, after all.

Sure enough, he found Romano in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, apron over his clothes, hands deep in a mixing bowl. Several pots were simmering and steaming on the stove. "You staying for brunch, bastard?" The Italian asked without looking up from his task.

"Yes, please." America answered, leaning against the doorframe and stifling a yawn."That would be great."

"'Kay. Feliciano's coming, too, since the potato bastard's got something to do with his bastard brother. He just had to drop the bastard off, so he should be here soon." The half-nation answered thoughtfully."Hang on a sec and I'll get you some coffee."

"What'cha makin'?" America asked, moving to sit at the table, chin in hand, watching Romano work.

"Tomato salad, not that it's any of your business, idiot." Romano replied, licking dressing from his thumb. He nodded, satisfied, and put the dish to the side. Quickly rinsing and wiping his hands, he reached for the coffee and poured America a cup, placing it on the table in front of the other nation, attention focused on the towel draped over his wrist, which he fingered idly as America gratefully accepted the cup, apparently examining the hem for flaws.

"Thanks, Romano!" America beamed at the Italian, who cleared his throat, and looked over at the stove, frowning. The blond downed the whole thing in one gulp, eyes closing in bliss as he did so. "Mmmm. _Mmm. _Oh, yeah." he moaned, licking his lips to make sure he got every last drop."That's _so_ _good!_" He sighed in satisfaction and opened his eyes, looking into his now-empty cup. _Damn_ Italian coffee was good. "More please!" he begged eagerly, hopefully holding out his cup.

Romano snatched it from him without turning around, blushing, his hands shaking slightly as he poured. "S-should I leave you alone with your coffee, bastard?"

"What?"

"N-nothing. Refill it yourself next time, I'm busy." he answered, handing it back with a scowl, staring fixedly at the countertop.

"You don't want any, Romano?" America asked, glancing around as he accepted it, noticing that the Italian nation didn't have a cup of his own sitting anywhere. "It's pretty incredible."

"Cheh. A-as if I want anything you've got, bastard."

"Uh..." America's brows furrowed uncertainly. Maybe it was because he'd just woken up and needed more coffee, but he wasn't sure he was following the thread of this conversation. "It's _your_ coffee, Romano. Unless you meant sharing the cup, which I wouldn't mind, but that's also technically yours. I mean, it's nice of you to let me use it, but-"

"_S-shut up_, idiot. I knew what you meant, dammit." Romano growled, keeping his back to America, ignoring the way his ears burned as he grabbed a stack of plates from the cupboard, setting them down on the counter with more force than was strictly necessary. "I'm going to get some wine from the cellar, dammit."

"Okay." The other responded, quickly downing his second cup. "You mind if I use your shower?"

"I don't give a shit what you do, bastard. Up the stairs on your left. Be ready to eat in 30 minutes, dammit." the half-nation answered as he fled the kitchen.

"Haha, no problem!" America called after him, leaving his seat to pour himself yet another cup of coffee. One more, and it was showertime. He picked up the pot, and hesitated, staring at it consideringly. There was still half a pot left, and if he went to take a shower, it might be all cold and icky by the time he got back. And Romano wasn't going to have any, so...it seemed a shame to waste it. It was really, really good. He nodded decisively, and put his empty cup down on the counter. Hefting the pot, he smiled in satisfaction. He'd just take it with him into the shower- that way he could get his fix, get clean, and not waste any coffee, all at the same time! Really, sometimes he was a _genius._

__

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* * *

_

Romano came up from the cellar with a bottle of wine to see his brother coming through the door, carrying a bag in his hands. "You're late, idiot. What took so long?"

"I thought America might need something to wear, so I brought some things of Germany's, ve~." His brother answered, hefting the bag with a smile. He sniffed the air, and his eyes widened. Romano was cooking? That was unusual. His brother almost never cooked if there was someone around to do it for him. Feliciano had been expecting to make brunch as soon as he arrived, yet the unmistakable aroma of his brother's home cooking already filled the air. He beamed at Romano. "You're cooking? You never cook! It smells so good~."

"I, I cook sometimes, idiot." Romano defended, blushing. "I was too hungry to wait for- wait, why would you think America needed clothes?" He asked, eyes narrowing, and crossed his arms. Then he blinked. "Wait, exactly why would you think America was still here?"

"Ve~." Feliciano answered, frowning. "He isn't? But, I thought, last night..."

"'Last night' what, idiot?" Romano scowled. "I told you, dammit, _it wasn't a date_."

"Ve~, but," his brother responded, brows furrowing. Then his gaze slid past Romano and he smiled. "When did you start wearing superhero boxers, Romano?" He asked, turning to his brother. Romano turned around to see America's underwear draped across the banister, and dropped his face into his palm. "They look a little big for you, though~." Feliciano observed, grinning.

"S-shut up! It's not what you think, dammit! He was tired, okay? _Chigi!_"

"Ve~, I know! America stayed up all week so he could see you~. Isn't that sweet, Romano~?" His brother beamed, bouncing on his toes. "I thought he'd be too tired to drive home last night, and you'd let him sleep over. So I brought clothes!" He added, hefting the bag again.

Romano's mouth opened and closed, and he frowned. "Did everyone know about that but me, dammit?" He grumbled, snatching the bag from his brother and handing him the bottle of wine. "What did you bring for the idiot, anyway?" he asked, opening the bag to look inside. His brother opened his mouth to respond, when a crash and the sound of glass shattering came from upstairs. They both looked to the stairs.

"Um..." Feliciano asked in worried confusion. "Do we even have any glass up there?"

"Just the mirrors, as far as I know." Romano answered, and sighed. "We'd better go see what happened, dammit."

"Ve~, he slept in your room?" Feliciano asked as they ascended the stairs.

"_No_. He slept on the couch, idiot." Romano growled, grabbing America's boxers as they passed. "He asked if he could take a shower."

"I hope he didn't break the bathroom mirror." His brother said. "It's an antique."

"Wouldn't surprise me, dammit." The elder sighed. They stopped in front of the bathroom door.

"The water's still running, so maybe he's still in the shower?" Feliciano observed. Romano shrugged, and knocked.

"Oi, idiot! Everything okay in there?" He yelled. They heard an exclamation of surprise, followed by a thud.

"Ow! Owowow." They heard the nation hiss, obviously trying to be quiet. "Um, I'm really sorry Romano, but I kind of broke your coffeepot." His voice called through the door. Two sets of eyebrows rose.

"...What?" Said Romano, not sure he'd heard right.

"I um, broke your coffeepot." The other confessed, sounding embarrassed and chagrined.

"Are you alright, America~?" Feliciano called back.

"Oh hey, hi Italy. Um, yeah, I'm fine, thanks. The coffeepot's in critical condition, though. I'm really sorry, Romano."

Romano realized he would probably regret this, but he had to ask. "...Why was the coffeepot in the bathroom, idiot?"

"Um." There was a tinkle of glass. "Well, the coffee was really good, and there was a lot left, and you weren't having any, so I didn't want to waste it...and, uh..." More glass. A stifled whimper. "...it seemed like a good idea at the time?"

"I'm sure it did." Romano sighed, rubbing his temple.

"Are you sure you're okay, America? It sounds like you're hurt." Feliciano asked again, concerned.

"Um, well, there's a lot of glass, but it's okay. I got a _little_ cut, but it's not bad, and I'm not bleeding on anything that'll stain, I promise."

The brothers exchanged a glance. "...We're coming in, bastard."

"Um, okay. I'm, uh, still in the shower, though. Just so you know."

"We'll keep our eyes closed, bastard." Romano said drily. America laughed.

"It's okay, it doesn't bother me. Just wasn't sure if it was a problem for you guys. 'Cause, uh, I can't really reach the towels from here." He clarified.

Romano pushed the door open, and the brothers entered the restroom. America looked up from where he knelt in the shower, just out of the spray, trying to clear up the fragments of glass littered across the shower floor. His wet hair was plastered back, and there was a smear of red on his cheek as he smiled sheepishly at them. Blood dripped liberally from several cuts on his forearm, mixing with the streams of water to stain the bottom of the shower pink. He made to get up, but Romano held up a hand. "Don't move, bastard." He ordered, and turned to his brother. "Go get the dustpan and brush from the closet downstairs, dammit."

"Okay~." Feliciano nodded, and hurried out. Romano opened the cabinet, pulling out a bottle of antiseptic and a box of bandages, setting them on the counter. As he closed the cabinet door, Feliciano clattered back in, carrying a dustpan and floor brush. "Here you go! I got them, just like you asked!" He announced. Romano held out his hand for them, and stood, turning to face the shower.

Without looking around, he directed, "Go downstairs and check on the food, Feliciano."

"Roger!" Feliciano saluted, and left, with a sympathetic smile over his shoulder at America, who still crouched dripping in the shower. After the door closed, Romano turned off the water, and knelt to sweep up the glass shards. America watched, looking abashed. "I-" He started.

"Don't." Romano interrupted curtly. America looked down, wrapping his arms around his raised knee, bleeding quietly while he waited for Romano to finish. After a moment he started to shiver, the water on his skin rapidly cooling now that the shower was off.

Romano worked in silence, careful to make sure he got all the glass, dumping it in the wastebasket next to the cabinet. When he was satisfied he'd gotten it all, he lowered the lid on the toilet, and draped a towel over it. "Sit." He pointed at it, taking the bandages and antiseptic from the counter. America obeyed, wincing slightly as he stood- and Romano could see blood dripping from several cuts littering his right ankle, as well. His lips pursed in irritation, and he knelt before the shivering wet nation, uncapping the antiseptic and setting it on the floor. Lifting America's foot, he examined his injuries. Most of the cuts were shallow and didn't really need to be bandaged, but a couple were a bit deeper. Not deep enough to need stitches, but definitely deep enough to require attention. His jaw clenched, and he picked up the antiseptic, reaching up to grab a clean handtowel from the towelbar. Folding it, he poured a little of the antiseptic onto it, and began cleaning the cuts. America winced at the contact. "You." Romano started, focused on his task. "Are the stupidest bastard I have ever known. What the _hell_ were you thinking? You're _damn_ lucky you didn't get burned, jackass."

"Well, I-"

"Shut up, I'm not finished, dammit." He dropped the handtowel on his knee and reached for the bandages. "What kind of world-class moron takes a glass container full of _boiling liquid_ into the _shower_? Are you _trying_ to get yourself killed, dammit?" He finished applying the bandages to the cuts above America's ankle, and put it down, picking the towel back up and applying more antiseptic. "Is there a brain in that empty head of yours, bastard, or is it just there for decoration? You _idiot! Chigi!_" He reached for the blond's arm, checking the injuries there. A couple of fairly deep cuts and a gash, again, not needing stitches but definitely needing bandages. He scowled, pressing the towel against the cuts, and America twitched, hissing a little. "You damned _moron!_ You couldn't wait _30 minutes_ for more coffee? Do you ever think of anything besides your stomach, bastard? _Dammit!_ I can't _believe_ how stupid you are! There are limits to how stupid a person can be, dammit!" He slapped bandages over the cuts, and capped the bottle of disinfectant, tossing the towel into the shower. "How have you even survived this long, bastard?" His voice had risen steadily through his tirade, so that he was yelling before he'd even finished America's ankle.

He stood, grabbing a towel from the towel bar and dropping it over the blond's head, and began roughly toweling the other's hair dry. "Chigi! You're more trouble than you're worth, idiot! I should have just left you at the restaurant when you fell asleep! Or better yet, I should have locked the door before you even came here in the first place and ruined everything with your stupidity, dammit! Idiot, you're such an idiot."

America gripped the seat tightly, head hanging under the towel, a lump rising in his throat. Romano was right, he was an idiot. He hadn't known the coffeepot would shatter- he dropped his at home all the time, it'd never broken. And now he'd broken Romano's stuff and made a mess and put Romano through so much trouble...he felt terrible. He really wanted Romano to like him, but he screwed up, and now Romano was mad at him, regretted hanging out with him in the first place... maybe wouldn't want to hang out with him again. That thought stung more than any of the cuts or Romano's words. He knew Romano was just upset, and didn't mean most of it, but he wasn't sure about the part where Romano said he shouldn't have gone out with him in the first place. Romano sounded pretty serious about that, and that kind of hurt. If Romano really didn't want anything to do with him, how would he ever get him to like him? What if, what if Romano would _never _like him?

He wasn't sure if even Italian suits and chocolate ice cream (or gelato) could fix this.

Romano paused as a sniffling sound came from under the towel. Was...was America crying? "O-oi. Bastard." He poked America's head through the towel. "Does...does it hurt much? I can have Feliciano bring up some aspirin."

"No." America sniffed, swiping his eyes with the back of a hand. "It doesn't hurt. I'm, I'm just..." He exhaled, a deep shuddering breath. "I'm really sorry, Romano. I, I," He sniffed again. "I didn't know it would break, m-mine never d-does. I didn't mean to make you mad, I," he swiped at his eyes again, voice trembling, "I r-really like you, and, and..." He took another breath, trying to steady his voice. It was really hard to talk with the lump in his throat squeezing it so tight. "I r-really want you to like me, too, and n-now..." He stifled a sob, words failing.

Romano's stomach dropped. He hadn't meant to make the idiot cry. He was just...it was just..dammit, everything, and then, and he'd been sitting there bleeding everywhere and, dammit. All the frustration and worry and confusion of yesterday and this morning had just kind of... come out. _Dammit_. He sighed, and resumed drying America's hair. "I don't...hate you, bastard."

A sniffle. "...Really?"

"Don't get me wrong- you're an idiot, and a moron, and you rush into things without thinking, and you're _completely_ hopeless, dammit; but..." He exhaled, frowning. "I don't hate you." He admitted. _It'd be so much easier if I did, dammit._

America sniffed again, and lifted his head. "Okay." Romano lifted the towel from the blond's head, dropping it around his shoulders. America rubbed away the last of his tears and gave him a hesitant half smile, just a slight upturn of the mouth, his tousled, damp hair falling into his face. Romano grabbed a tissue from a box on the counter and thrust it at him, turning away.

"Blow your damn nose, idiot." He grumbled, blushing. He went to the door and added, "And cover yourself up. Think you can handle drying yourself off without breaking anything else, bastard?"

"Yeah, I got it from here." America answered quietly, taking the tissue and snuffling into it. "Thank you, Romano."

The half-nation grunted in response, opening the door and scooping the bag Feliciano had brought over up off the floor (he'd dropped it outside when they'd entered the restroom) and tossing it to land at America's feet. "My stupid little brother brought some clothes for you, bastard. Your boxers are outside the door here, too. Put 'em in the bag when you come out."

"Oh, hey, that was really nice of him." America said, surprised. "Thanks. And I will."

"They're Germany's, so don't expect much." Romano said drily, and closed the door behind him. "Feliciano should have brunch ready, so just come to the kitchen when you're dressed. Try not to fall down the stairs or anything, dammit."

"Haha, I'm not _that_ clumsy." America called back through the door. Romano just snorted.

"Wouldn't surprise me, bastard." He answered, heading for the stairs. He ran a hand through his hair as he descended, and sighed. He wasn't sure if he was looking forward to America's departure or dreading it, but at least it would give him time to figure things out without any distractions. Maybe then he could get rid of this stupid feeling that kept rising up everytime he was around the idiot, that kept making him lose his cool and do stupid, impulsive things.

Here's hoping, anyway.

* * *

_Cover your heart, Indy! Cover your heart!_

_AN: Oh Romano. You didn't have any cool to begin with, you dork. _

_Poor America. I think we've all been there once or twice- having done something stupid in front of a new crush and feeling like complete idiots. Of course, America doesn't realize he's crushing yet, but his heart sure as heck does. Poor Romano, too. _

_P.S. I bring coffee into the shower all the time. I've hardly ever broken stuff, though, but that might be because I don't usually bring the whole pot (it's hard to drink out of). _


	26. Mixed Signals

**Disclaimer: Hetalia, I don't own it. **

_Ok, so. Coffeepots. Some of you asked in your reviews and PMs what America's coffeepot is made of. I guess people break them all the time. Well..._

_Y'see, I have dropped a lot of coffeepots in my time. A LOT. At work, at home, at other people's homes, when I travel, etc...I have fingers made of butter when it comes to coffeepots (and other objects but shhh). I've never broken one, though. They always bounce, for some reason. The only coffeepot I remember seeing break in my life was my great-grandmother's old-style regular glass one when I was, oh, five. So, when I was writing the last chapter, I assumed Romano South Italy, being the sentimental and frugal sort, would have the old-style glass type he got a bajillion years ago. If it ain't broke, right? (pffft) __So then I thought 'I wonder what those unbreakable coffeepots are made of. It must be awesome! I should look it up!' And so I did. Coffeepots are made of__ glass. __Normally, they break when you drop them. So I guess America and I have just been lucky. It's good I've never taken one into the shower- although I'll admit right now that's **only** because I haven't been able to figure out a way to drink straight from the pot without spilling it all over myself, and I do enough of that with just cups'n'stuff._

_But now I will wince everytime I drop a coffeepot._

_About this chapter: it's technically the first part of one long chapter split into three parts, so...*cough*_

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The table was set by the time America entered the kitchen, dressed in Germany's sleeveless black training shirt and dark green cargo pants, damp hair slicked back. Feliciano took one look at him and put down the dish he held, moving over to prod the taller nation's tightly-clad torso with awe. He lightly touched America's bare arms, and sighed. "Ve~," he said disconsolately, "between you and Germany I think I should cry. Too many muscles, muscles! Is there something wrong with my genes? Why do you guys have to be so _big_, ve~?"

America looked down at himself, then back at North Italy, mouth quirking up in an amused smile. "Well," he said, "I work out a lot. Almost every day, in fact, though I skipped some days this last week. I'm not sure about height, but you could definitely get some muscle on ya if you trained a bit. It's not that hard. I'd be happy to help out if you'd like."

"No thank you~, I'll pass." Feliciano smiled, waving his hands. "It's way too much work, ve~."

America laughed. "Alright, but don't complain about not getting the results if you don't put in the effort." He teased, playfully cuffing the younger Italy's shoulder. Italy shrugged amiably.

"Still, Germany's clothes look pretty good on you. The pants are a bit big, though~." He observed, tugging on the waistband which, true enough, hung low on America's hips. It was America's turn to shrug.

"'S okay, I prefer my pants loose anyway. More room to move in." He looked down, wiggling his toes. "I'm going to have to wear the shoes Nino gave me for now though, until I swing by and pick up my boots and stuff."

"Nino gave you shoes?"

"Yep! I wasn't gonna take 'em, but he said I needed them, 'cause..." He glanced over to the table where Romano was mulling over his wine, apparently ignoring the conversation. "Uhm.." He glanced uncertainly at Feliciano, who looked at his brother, frowned, and glanced back at America, shrugging. Then he smiled, patting America's arm reassuringly.

"Ve~, why don't you come sit down, America? We can get started on brunch!" He invited, leading the way to the table and indicating a chair. America followed with a small smile, rubbing the back of his neck a little nervously.

"Alright, thanks. It, uh, smells good." He said as he took his seat. He glanced at the elder Italian again, who was still deeply absorbed in his wineglass, and picked up his plate, reaching for the nearest dish. "Can I just dig in, or...?" He started, hoping for a cue as to whether he should help himself or wait to be served.

"Oh, let me do that for you, America!" Feliciano exclaimed, taking the plate from the other's hands and starting to fill it. "Romano cooked everything!" He explained happily, adding something from each dish onto America's plate. "I just set it all up. It's really surprising, 'cause Romano _never_ cooks!"

"I do too cook, idiot. I cook all the time." Romano defended irritatedly, scowling at his brother. "I _have_ to, dammit, since you're always off with the potato bastard and keep leaving me all alone here."

His brother paused in his task to blink at him, taken aback. "Ve..."

America cleared his throat, and took the plate from Feliciano's hands with a smile of thanks. "I'm sure it'll be great, thanks." The half-nation returned his smile, and turned his attention to his own plate. America took a bite of his salad, and beamed. "Mm, this is really good!" He enthused, turning to Romano, his smile dying an awkward death when the Italian simply grunted disinterestedly, engrossed in his own meal. Turning back to his plate, America took another bite, chewing silently for a moment before he spoke up again. "I, uh, really appreciate you letting me crash here last night. I don't remember much of what happened after Germany did his thing, so... I'm sorry if I did anything to offend you. And I'm sorry about your coffeepot. I'll replace it as soon as I get back."

"Don't worry about it." Romano replied curtly.

"I want to." America insisted. "I feel really bad about it, and well, I know I caused trouble for you, so..."

Romano sighed, putting down his glass. "I'm not worried about the damn pot, idiot."

"We're just glad you're okay." Feliciano piped up, smiling reassuringly at America.

"I'm always okay." America grinned, waving dismissively."I've gone through glass _windows_ before, so really, this is nothing. Doesn't even hurt."

Romano snorted, but didn't say anything.

America stuffed his mouth full, and said, "Ahmufvh-"

"Swallow first, bastard." Romano couldn't help ordering. The other nation quickly complied.

"Anyway," continued America conversationally (and much more clearly), "I was thinking- I have some vacation owed me that I haven't taken yet, and well, I've never really had the chance to see Italy, you know? I've heard a lot of good things, but I would't know where to start. I thought maybe I could take next week off or something, and if you're not busy, you could show me around a bit."

"Ve~, that's a great idea, America! Romano would be happy to give you a tour!" Feliciano beamed, clapping his hands. "He-"

"I'm going to be busy." Romano interrupted.

"Doing what?" His brother asked, confused.

"Work, idiot. I _do_ work, you know."

"Ve~, but, I would be happy to-"

"No."

"Well, if you're busy, it doesn't have to be next week." America offered hopefully. "I can always take it later. Maybe the week after next?"

"Busy."

"Oh. Okay, well...maybe-"

"I'm going to be busy for a long time, bastard."

"Oh." America looked down at his plate. "Oh. Okay."

The younger Italy gave his brother a _look_. Romano shifted in his seat, looking away. Turning to America, Feliciano offered, "I can show you around if you'd like, America? I'd be happy to show you the sights, ve~."

"That's, uh, really nice of you. But it's okay." The blond nation gave him a listless smile. "I guess it wasn't such a good idea, after all."

"Ve..." Feliciano watched him sadly for a moment, then frowned at his brother. "Romano, I'm sure you could find time to show America a little of our place. We don't have _that_ much work, ve~."

Romano threw his fork down angrily, and the other two at the table flinched. "_Fine._ You want a tour, bastard? I'll give you a tour. That's North Italy, and this is South Italy." He barked, gesturing to his brother and himself. "_There_. Now you've seen the best of Italy." He announced, and sat back in his seat with a scowl, arms crossed, and turned to glare moodily out the window over the kitchen sink.

"Heh." America's lips twitched a bit, despite his disappointment. Even if Romano _was_ still mad at him over the coffeepot, that was kind of funny. "That was kind of awesome. 'The best of Italy in five seconds- a mediterranean experience!' The best part is, it's totally true." He grinned a little at North Italy, who smiled back, but recieved no reaction from Romano. Sighing inwardly, he stared sadly back down at his plate.

Romano blushed a little, warming inside at the American's response, but stared resolutely at the lemon tree outside the window. Okay, so maybe he was being a little... harsh, but it was _necessary_, dammit. He had to nip this whole thing, whatever it was, in the bud before it became...well, a _thing_. It'd occurred to him on his way back from mass that if he could just keep from _looking_ at or talking to the idiot too much during the remainder of his stay, then maybe he could quell this whole ..._whatever_ this was, and keep from doing anything stupid, like getting attached to some idiot who probably wouldn't even _remember _him a week from now.

And it'd worked fine for the most part. He'd avoided the living room entirely when he'd gotten back, going straight to his room to change and then down to the kitchen to get started on brunch. It'd been a little harder to do when America had come into the kitchen where he was working, but he'd managed to avoid looking at him, though not _talking_ to him had been more difficult. America was his _guest_, after all. Still, he thought he'd done a pretty good job of keeping their interactions to a minimum.

But _then_ the idiot had to go and get himself _hurt_ and make Romano _worry_ about him, and forget about his decision to ignore the idiot until he'd gotten back to the kitchen, by which time he was all worked up and dammit...

Now he felt like he was kicking a puppy. He was a puppy-kicker, dammit. And Feliciano was _looking_ at him like he was kicking a puppy. But he _had_ to kick the puppy, dammit! He didn't _want_ a damn puppy! _Sure_ they were cute and all, but they got into everything and made messes all over the place and chewed up all your good shoes, and then once you'd gotten attached the little bastards ran away or followed someone else home and broke your heart, dammit. He _didn't need a puppy._

He had to stay strong.

Even if it was a _really_ cute puppy. That kept doing the sweetest things. And _obviously_ couldn't be trusted to take care of itself, with the way it ate anything it found and kept getting into trouble, and..._dammit, he didn't need a puppy. _

It'd forget him soon enough, anyway.

* * *

Feliciano glanced between his brother, who was glaring at the lemon tree outside as though it had offended him on a deeply personal level, and America, who was staring at his plate, subdued. He wasn't sure what to think. Romano was acting strangely, being so...well...he hesitated to think it, but really, his brother was being kind of _mean_ to America. Sure, Romano was usually a little on the prickly side, but that was just the way his brother _was_. Underneath all the bluster, Feliciano knew his brother was very sensitive. But all during brunch, he'd been...Feliciano didn't know how to describe it. It was like watching his brother kick a puppy. It was so sad! That poor puppy! Puppy-America had been trying so hard to get his brother's attention and being so sweet, with his little puppy tail wagging and looking all hopeful, and now he was all sad and, well, like a puppy that had been kicked. But why would Romano kick the puppy? Things had been going so well! Had something happened between the time he and Germany had left the restaurant and now?

Feliciano hoped America wouldn't be too discouraged by his brother's behaviour.

* * *

America pushed his food around his plate. It was really good and all, and he wanted to eat it 'cause Romano had made it, but for some reason he just...couldn't. His stomach kind of hurt, all of a sudden. Or maybe his chest, he wasn't sure. Either way, his appetite was gone. Part of him wanted to go home and curl up in bed, or something. But...he kind of didn't want to leave Romano, even though the other nation was obviously still upset with him. _Especially_ while the other nation was still upset with him. He didn't want to end his visit like this. But he wasn't sure what to do. And Romano didn't seem to be ready to forgive him, yet.

His stomach (or maybe his chest) ached.

Maybe...he bit his lip, considering. Maybe it was time for a tactical retreat. But...what if he left, and Romano never wanted to see him again? What if this was his only chance? He snuck a look at Romano, who was facing away from him, shoulders hunched, arms crossed. He knew that posture- Mattie sat like that everytime he was really, really pissed at him. Usually after he'd done something really stupid, just before he gave him a lecture and kicked him out. He winced at the thought of Romano kicking him out.

The ache in his stomach (or chest) got worse.

Suddenly, he just really wanted to go home.

* * *

"I should go." The words came out in a rush, as America put his fork down and stood.

Feliciano looked at him in surprise. "But...you've hardly eaten anything."

Romano glanced sidelong at America's plate. It was still half-full. He frowned. Didn't America like his cooking? Was...was something wrong with the food?

"I know. I'm sorry. It's really good, but..." America shrugged, a little sheepishly. "I'm just...not very hungry, I guess."

"What do you mean you're not hungry, bastard? You're _always_ hungry, dammit. You don't like the food?" Romano asked without turning around, shoulders tense.

"No, I did. Really, it's really good. It's just...my stomach hurts, I think."

"You _think_ your stomach hurts?"

"Maybe my chest. I dunno. I don't feel so good." America answered, spreading his hand over his torso above his stomach.

"Ve~." Feliciano frowned in concern, getting up from his seat to press a hand to America's forehead. "You don't feel feverish. How long have you felt sick?"

"I dunno. Just started, I guess. I felt okay earlier." He sighed, and took off his glasses to rub at his eyes, missing the sharp look Feliciano shot at his brother over his shoulder. Romano's own shoulders drew up slightly as he shifted uneasily in his seat.

"Would you like to lay down for a while, America? Maybe you'll feel better if you get a little rest. We'd be happy to let you stay. You can use my room, if you'd like?" Feliciano offered, hovering motheringly over the blond nation.

America considered it. It was really nice of them, but ...he was feeling kind of confused and hurt and unbalanced, unwelcome in an unfamiliar environment. He wanted to be surrounded by familiar things again, feel his own lands under his feet, reassuring him and lending him strength. He'd be able to think more clearly then. "That's really nice of you, but I just want to go home." He confessed softly, hanging his head.

"Alright, America." Felciano said gently, reaching up to pet golden hair. "Do you want us to take you home?"

"Nah, I can do it." America shook his head. "I'll be okay. I'm probably just tired, or something. I'll just get my stuff and...get goin'."

"Alright. While you get your things together we'll pack you some food to take home with you, since you didn't get to eat. So don't leave until it's ready, okay? We'll be out to see you off, too, so just wait a bit. It won't take long." Feliciano smiled, patting his shoulder.

"That's okay, you don't have to-"

"We want to. Really." Feliciano insisted, sincerely. "You're our guest, America."

"Well, okay then." America nodded. "I'll, uh..." He gestured over his shoulder.

"You do that. If you need any help, let us know, okay?" America briefly smiled his thanks, and left the room.

As soon as he was gone, Feliciano turned to his brother, hands on his hips. Romano cringed a little, not meeting his brother's disappointed gaze. Feliciano's frown deepened. "Romano, did something happen? Why were you being like that to America? This isn't like you! And poor America." He shook his head sadly. "He looked like a kicked puppy, Romano."

Romano winced, fingering the cuff of his sleeve. "I had to do it!" He defended lamely. "I don't _want_ a puppy!"

"But he's such a nice puppy!" Feliciano protested. "And he likes you so much!"

"How do _you_ know whether or not he likes me? He's probably like that with everybody! And I don't _need_ a puppy! No matter how nice he is!" Romano groaned, clapping a hand over his face. "And _why are we talking about him like he's a puppy_? He's a _person_, dammit. A freaking _nation_, not an animal. Even if he eats like one." He added, rubbing his eyes in frustration.

"Yes, he is. And you really hurt his feelings, Romano. America really likes you. He _really_ likes you. Anyone can see it." His brother sighed. "And besides, he told me so himself."

"He did?" Romano asked, peeking through his fingers. "What did he say?"

"He said-" Feliciano started, and paused, biting his lip. Should he tell his brother what America had said before they danced? It might complicate things, especially since America didn't seem to understand his own feelings. Maybe an edited version? "Well, he said a lot of things. That he likes you and wants to spend more time with you, for one."

He had? Sure, America had said as much to him, but he might say that to _everyone_, as far as Romano knew, so he didn't read much into it. Somehow it was kind of different if he said it to other people about _Romano_, though. But still... America was the kind of guy who liked _everybody_. It's not like he liked Romano especially, or anything. "That doesn't mean anything, though. He probably's like that with everyone. He'll probably forget me as soon as he goes home, anyway."

"America's not like that with everyone." Feliciano corrected, brows furrowing. "Why would you think that?"

"How do you know he's not like that with everyone? He's always smiling and laughing and shit, everytime I've seen him. Even when he's _arguing_ with people, like England. He's a friendly guy."

"Romano, we've been doing business with America for well over a century." His brother informed him seriously, crossing his arms. "I've met with him a lot of times for work. You're right, he's usually pretty friendly, but I've never seen him work for _anyone_'s attention the way he has been for yours."

Romano threw his arms up in confusion and frustration. "But w_hy? _What does he _want_, dammit? Why me? I don't _get_ it- he's a freaking _superpower_. What do I have that he wants? _Why is he here?_" He wailed, and buried his face in his hands.

"Oh, _Romano_." Feliciano flung himself at his brother, hugging him tightly. Romano buried his face in his brother's shoulder, hands gripping the other's sides. "You really like him, don't you?" Feliciano asked softly.

"_No_." Romano muttered into his brother's shoulder. "I _can't_. It's too soon, dammit. A couple of meals and a shopping trip is not enough time to like someone." His fingers tightened in the fabric of Feliciano's shirt. "I didn't even _eat_ the first time, dammit."

"Ve~, well, sometimes that's all it takes." His brother said gently. "After all, I've been with Germany since he found me hiding in that crate, remember?"

"That's different, idiot." Romano protested. "You were friends with the potato bastard for a long time before you started liking him."

"Ve..." Feliciano hesitated. "That's...not entirely true."

Romano stilled. "What do you mean?" He asked warily.

"Um, well..." Feliciano bit his lip, and Romano pulled back to look his brother in the face.

"Well what, bastard?" He asked, eyes narrowing.

"Well..." The younger looked down. "I've liked Germany for a long time. A really, really long time. Um...pretty much since we first met, actually." He shifted, fidgeting with the back of Romano's shirt. Romano blinked, frowning.

"But...you only started dating a while back."

"I know. I never told him. I was...well, I was scared to." He smiled embarrassedly. "And, well, I thought maybe it would go away. Over time. But it didn't. I just liked him more and more, and then...well," He shrugged.

"Oh God, we're both idiots." Romano groaned, letting his head drop back onto his brother's shoulder. "Grandpa Rome must have dropped us on our heads when we were babies."

"Vehe." His brother giggled, squeezing him. "It would explain a lot, wouldn't it?"

"Heh." Romano huffed a laugh, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "A bit, yeah." He took a deep breath, and straightened. "Alright, get off me, idiot." Straightening his clothes when Feliciano released him, he asked, "If you liked him for that long, why did it take so long for you and Germany to get together, then?"

"Ve~," Feliciano sighed, "well, I liked him for a long, long time, but I never told him, 'cause I was scared he didn't feel the same. And I didn't want to ruin our friendship, or scare him away. Just being with him, even as friends, was better than nothing."

"Huh. So what changed your mind?"

"Actually, Germany was the first one to confess." His brother admitted. "One day while we were out drinking, he said he's liked me for a long time, but didn't realize it until, well, he wouldn't tell me, but it had something to do with Prussia, I guess. He said he hadn't planned to tell me 'cause he didn't want to ruin our friendship, and he didn't expect me to reciprocate, but he felt I had the right to know. And I'm glad he did, ve~. If he hadn't, we'd probably still be friends." He paused thoughtfully, before quietly adding, "Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had confessed earlier. Would we have gotten together sooner? I don't regret our friendship, but...still, sometimes I wonder."

Romano didn't know what to say to that, really. After a few seconds, Feliciano smiled again. "Anyway," he said, pressing a kiss to his brother's cheek, "I should go check on America. You pack him something to eat, okay? It'd be a shame if your cooking went to waste."

"Whatever, idiot."

"And no more kicking puppy-America." His brother added, sticking his tongue out and ducking as Romano swiped at him.

"S-shut up!" Romano flushed guiltily. "He's not a puppy, dammit."

"Mm. So give him a chance, okay?" His brother called over his shoulder as he exited the kitchen.

Romano sighed and put his hands on his hips, surveying the table consideringly. America would probably be hungry when he calmed down, so he'd have to pack a lot for the idiot. Turning to dig through the cabinets for containers to put the food in, he thought about what his brother had said. He still wasn't sure how he felt about this whole thing and he didn't know what America wanted from him, but maybe Feliciano was right. Maybe he should give America a chance. What's the worst that could happen? _Well, it could break your heart and ruin your economy, possibly. _His mind supplied unhelpfully. He scowled, pulling a stack of the largest plastic containers he could find out of the cabinet, and put them on the counter. _That's about enough of that, dammit_. He scolded himself. _It's not like I even __**like **__him that much, yet. _

_You could, though. _

_But I don't._ He argued, digging out the lids.

_Oh yeah? Turn around and look at that table and say that again._

He bit his lip. _S-shut up. I was hungry._

_Yeah? And what Amata said had nothing to do with your little cooking spree, huh?_

_I don't know what you're talking about. _He flushed, laying out the containers on the table and starting to fill them.

_Face it, idiot. You like him. At least a little. _

_...Maybe a little._ He admitted reluctantly, setting aside the second container and reaching for a third. _Just a little, though. It's just a little crush, maybe. Not _even_ a crush, dammit. And it'll probably go away soon enough._

_Feliciano's didn't, remember? _

_I'm not Feliciano, dammit._ He growled, slamming the lid down on the last container. _It's not the same_.

_Maybe_. _We'll see._

_Damn right._ He huffed, reaching for a bag to put everything in.

* * *

_AN: Romano...you already fed him, prettied him up and let him follow you home. I hate to tell you this, but it's far too late in the game to start kicking. Unless someone puts up 'lost dog' posters, you've got yourself a puppy. Better break out the newpapers. _

_Don't worry too much about America, guys. He always bounces back. You can't keep a good dog (er, man) down! (And he really has gone through glass windows before.)_


	27. American Dogs and Inside Jokes

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. If puppy!America is any indication, that's a very good thing.**

_The only excuse I have for this is that I barely slept all week. A lot happens in this chapter, so try to keep up!_

* * *

America sat on the couch, bag in hand. He was pretty sure the suit was the only thing he had to pack. He could put the suit in the bag with his underwear, right? That wouldn't hurt it, right? Well, it's not like he had much choice. He prodded the pile listlessly. What had gone wrong? He'd thought things had been going pretty well, up 'til now.

Okay, so he'd broken the coffeepot, but Romano actually hadn't seemed that concerned about it in the bathroom. Mostly he'd seemed kind of upset that he (America) was hurt. But really, he got cuts like this all the _time_, this was _nothing_. Romano had nothing to worry about. And he'd calmed down by the time he'd left the bathroom, right?

Romano was upset again now, though. But why? He pulled a shoe out from under the coffeetable and slid it on, pondering. Maybe he'd come back down to the kitchen and realized his coffeepot was gone forever. A delayed reaction, or something. Could a coffeepot be a memento? Maybe Spain had given it to him. Or maybe Romano liked coffee a whole lot more than he'd realized. Maybe the Italian liked coffee almost as much as he liked hamburgers (except, you couldn't eat hamburgers in the shower- they got really soggy and fell apart, and then you had to clean bits of hamburger and bun out of the drain, which was gross).

Well, he could make it up to him, somehow. He'd get Romano the best coffeemaker _ever_. Something that not only _made_ coffee, but poured and served it too! Japan made robot maids, right? He'd have to ask if the island nation could make a robot coffeemaker. He found the other shoe under the couch, and smiled in budding excitement. One that answered the door and shot lasers out of it's eyes (not at the same time, of course)! That would be _awesome_.

Then Romano would _totally_ forgive him, and they'd be best friends _forever_.

He grabbed the shirt from the top of the pile, and paused. Wait a second...there was no _way_ he'd folded this. When he folded stuff, he basically just rolled it up. This was all crisp folds and clean lines, like in the store or something. Dropping the shirt in the bag, he rifled through the rest of the pile. _Everything_ was folded the same way- all crazy neat and stuff. He had no idea how to do this. So...if he hadn't folded it, then...he smiled. Then his eyes widened. Wait. Had ...had Romano _undressed _him? He blushed hotly, his hand coming up to cover the lower half of his face as he stared at the pile of clothes. Seeing him naked was one thing, but... this was _different_, somehow. Guys don't undress each other, right? He thought hard, blush creeping slowly down his neck.

After all, he was naked around guys all the _time_. Mattie, England, France, Lithuania; heck, even Russia. But they didn't _undress_ each other. Even when he was little, England would set out his clothes and then leave the room while he put them on. Even Mattie never undressed him, and they undressed in the same room all the time, like when they were changing into their sports gear and stuff. But when he slept over or crashed on the couch or whatever, Mattie just let him sleep in his clothes, telling him it served him right for not having the good sense to undress himself. Guys just, you know, don't _do_ that. Well, except for France, but he was, y'know, French. So...maybe it was an Italian thing? Like, cultural? Did Italian guys undress each other? His mind raced as he tried to remember anything he might have heard about Italians. Oh yeah! He was pretty sure that Japan had said something about North Italy trying to undress him sometimes. And kiss him, and hug him and stuff. So it probably _was_ cultural. He relaxed, blush fading. That was okay, then. He could deal with that, no problem. He was a flexible guy. Easygoing.

And he and Romano were going to be best buds. So if Romano wanted to undress him, then that was okay. _No_ problem. (He couldn't help blushing a _little_ at the thought, though.) Carefully, he stuffed the rest of the suit into the bag, and stood, grabbing his jacket from the back of the couch. Alright. He'd go and leave these with the motorcycle, and come back to say his goodbyes (or 'see you again's, in Romano's case). He had to get back home and start working on getting Romano the best coffeemaker _ever_. Bar _none_.

And then he'd contact Nino.

He could make this work. He was the _hero_. Heroes never gave up!

* * *

When Feliciano entered the foyer a little while later just as America was coming back in, he was relieved to see the American in good spirits once more. "Feeling better, America?"

"Yep! I gotta get back though, I have a _great_ idea for- well, it's a surprise." America grinned excitedly, and glanced around. "Have you seen my helmet? It's not on my 'bike."

"Ve~, I haven't seen anything like that, America. Did you bring it in with you last night?" Feliciano questioned, leaning back to check if anything was sitting on the coffee table in the other room.

"I'm not really sure." America confessed, running a hand through his hair, which was finally starting to dry. "I don't really remember anything after the restaurant. I'm guessing so, 'cause it's not outside."

"Alright, well, you look around down here, and I'll check upstairs, 'kay?"

"Kay!" He agreed, heading for the other room. "I'll start under the couch!"

Feliciano watched him go with a smile, and started up the stairs. It was good that America had recovered so quickly, he thought, then paused. Was it? It's true that America was usually a pretty cheerful person, but...well, if someone _he_ liked had acted towards him the way his brother had to America, he'd upset for a while, at least. Crestfallen, even. And America had seemed pretty upset not even fifteen minutes ago, but now he was all smiling and cheerful again. But why? Glancing back over his shoulder at the doorway America had exited through, his brows furrowed in thought.

America seemed to really like his brother, though. And sure, the nation could come off as hyperactive and airheaded, but Feliciano knew from their business dealings that he was actually pretty tenacious when he set his mind to something. Underneath that bouncy exterior and silly smile was a surprisingly sharp mind, when the occasion called for it. But...he wasn't sure how the nation was outside of business; like, regarding his personal life. Maybe he didn't take it as seriously? Maybe he'd already given up on his brother and decided to move on?

He frowned uneasily. What if Romano was right, and America was already forgetting about him? That would be bad. Romano already liked America a lot, even if he didn't want to admit it. And his brother had already been through so much. The last thing he needed was to be played around with by some fly-by-night nation.

But...America didn't seem like the kind of person who toyed with others' feelings like that. And he really seemed to like Romano, a lot. He'd stayed up a _week_ just to hang out with him, for one. And he'd been trying so hard to get his brother's attention. So he'd give America the benefit of the doubt, for now.

And check up on him a little, maybe. Romano was his _brother_, after all.

Squaring his shoulders, Feliciano paused on the landing, tapping his chin. Now...if he were America's helmet, where would he be? Aha! Grinning, he headed for Romano's room.

Once inside, he looked around. Ah! There was a helmet on Romano's nightstand. He trotted across the room, stopping when his foot skimmed something unusual. Looking down, he saw a thick envelope laying on the floor, wedged halfway under the closet door. How odd. Crouching down to pull it out, he noticed the name and logo of the restaurant they'd visited last night in the corner. Huh, what would they have given Romano? Or maybe it was for both of them, things usually were. It wasn't addressed to anyone, certainly, so most likely it _was_ for both of them. He'd open it later and check. But first, America's helmet. Sticking the envelope into his pocket so he wouldn't forget, he grabbed the helmet from Romano's bedside table and headed downstairs.

* * *

"America~~ I found iiit~!"

America glanced back over his shoulder and lowered the cabinet he'd lifted off the floor as North Italy trotted in, helmet held high. He grinned, and shook his head, turning to the other. "Nope, that's not mine, Italy. That's_ Romano_'s helmet!"

"Ve~, what?" Feliciano stopped, and blinked at the helmet in his hands. "But brother doesn't have a helmet..."

"He does now!" America beamed. "I had one made for him so he could hang out with me. And, you know, since I don't know anything about wine."

"What?"

"Or flowers. And, what if he was allergic? So I had this made for him, instead. Besides, this lasts _way_ longer." He stepped closer, leaning down to whisper, "You wouldn't _believe_ what I had to do to get it made in time."

"...You had it made?" Feliciano asked, lifting the helmet to examine it closer. Oh hey, it had Romano's name on it! How had he missed that earlier? He turned it around, and saw the icon on the back. Aww, that was cute~! He wanted one! "This is so cute, America! I want one! Can you make me one, too? Please?"

"Haha, no way!" America laughed, ruffling his hair. "Not a chance, little Italy."

"Aw, but I want one! Please, please?" The younger Italian begged. "Make one for me, too! Pleeeaase~. I want one! I want a helmet 'specially for me, too! Like brother's!"

"Aw, I'm sorry North Italy." America said apologetically, taking the helmet from the other's hands. "But this is a one-time only deal. I could get into a lot of trouble for some of the things I did to get this helmet done in time. Nothing illegal," he hastened to add when Feliciano's eyes went wide, "but, well, you see, this is a very special helmet. One-of-a-kind. I had to shut down operations at three different companies so they could focus entirely on this helmet, in order to get it to Al's by Saturday morning- Al does all my paint customization work- " he elaborated quickly, "and then, well..." He shifted nervously, adding in a rush, "anyway, yeah, I pulled in a _lot _of favours and owe s'more and you can't tell _anybody_ about this, okay?" He watched Italy anxiously. There was a lot more he wasn't saying- like the fact that the bulletproof material it was molded from was technically a top-secret prototype, as well as the method used to make it waterproof ('cause waterproofing something that was not only _vented_ but opened at the neck wasn't exactly easy to do), and okay, so _technically_ he hadn't done anything illegal, but that was mostly because he had diplomatic immunity, and really, if his boss found out about this he was going to be in _so much_ trouble, but Romano was _worth_ it.

Feliciano was looking at him funny, though. "Ve..." The younger Italian tilted his head to the side. "Does brother know? About everything you just told me?"

"Of course not!" The blond shook his head emphatically. "You're not supposed to tell people how much the gift you got them cost. It's rude."

Feliciano opened his mouth, paused, and then shut it again, still giving him that odd look. America shifted uneasily, starting to feel anxious again. Had he done something wrong? Was this another cultural thing, like 'don't hug England's Queen' or 'don't hogtie India's sacred cows' or 'don't climb in through Japan's windows if he doesn't answer the door'? Maybe you weren't supposed to give Italians helmets, or something? But that couldn't be it- North Italy had wanted one, too. And Romano hadn't seemed to mind. But maybe he was just being nice about it? Damn it, why did international relations have to be so _confusing_?

He was about to ask what was wrong, when Feliciano interrupted him with a question of his own. "America, you want to be...friends, with my brother, right?"

"Of course!" America affirmed, surprised that he would even have to ask.

"Ve, so, you do stuff like this for your friends often?"

America shrugged. "I get them presents and stuff sometimes, sure. Like, for birthdays and Christmas and stuff. I got Tony some sunglasses from the 'MIB' set for Christmas, 'cause he's hooked on that movie. And Japan wants stuff off of old infomercials sometimes. You know, he's really got to stop watching those." He added offhandedly.

Feliciano chewed his lip. "That's very nice, but...that's not quite the same, don't you think?"

"Maybe not, but Romano's _special_." He insisted. "And, well...um," He looked down, tracing the golden script on the front of the helmet as he spoke, "he doesn't really know me at all, and he has no real reason to, well, notice me, so I had to do something that would get his attention, you know?" He sat down on the couch with a sigh, and ran a hand through his hair. "Did I do something wrong? I'm trying to figure it out, but this is really confusing."

"No, no." Feliciano waved his hands in the air. "No! It's a very nice present, America. I'm sure my brother loves it. It was very sweet of you! Really." He sat down on the coffeetable across from the blond, and patted his knee. "It's not the present, America. I think it's really nice how you're trying so hard to be...friends, with my brother. It's just, well, Romano is my brother. You understand?"

"Okay?"

Feliciano nodded, continuing seriously, "And, well, you seem like a very nice guy, America. We've always gotten along well during our business meetings, and I like to think our countries have good relations, but-"

"_Oh_." America interrupted, relaxing as understanding dawned. "You want to make sure I'm not going to take advantage of your brother. Or hurt him, or anything, right? This is the 'if you mess with my brother' talk, isn't it." He smiled warmly. "I can understand that. I'd do the same if it was my brother, too."

"Ve~, yes. I love my brother very much." The younger Italian said. "And, well, I want him to be happy. He's been through a lot, and, well, my brother is very sensitive. Like I said, you _seem_ like a very nice person. But, you're very young, America, and young people sometimes do things on a whim. You seem to like him a lot _now_, but how do I know you won't lose interest tomorrow? A week from now? A month?"

America frowned. "I don't forget my friends, Italy." He stated, sounding hurt.

"I want to believe that, I do." Feliciano insisted. "But I don't know you very well. So how do I know?"

"That's...a fair question, I guess." America chewed his lip, thinking hard. Finally, he said, "I don't know. I really like Romano. A lot. More than hamburgers, probably. And, well, I want to be friends forever, but I'm not sure how I can convince you of that. Like you said, you don't know me very well, so you have no reason to believe me." He looked down, drumming his fingers on the helmet. "...Are you going to tell me to stay away from Romano?"

"Ve~." Feliciano tilted his head, and asked, "Would you if I did?"

"No." America answered readily. He sat up straight, looking seriously at the Italian across from him. "You're a nice guy, Italy, but the only person who can tell me whether or not I can hang out with Romano is Romano. Even if you tell me to stay away, I'm going to keep trying." He bit his lip. "If...if after he gets to know me better he still doesn't like me or want to hang out with me, then he can tell me himself."

"That's your answer, then? No matter what I say? Or anyone else?" Feliciano asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Yes." America stated, meeting his gaze steadily. After a moment, Feliciano smiled.

"Alright then. That's good enough for now." He said, patting America's knee again. America smiled back, relieved, and held out a hand for Feliciano to shake.

"Good. I'd really like us to get along, Italy. You're very important to Romano." He said, as they shook on it and stood.

"I'd like us to get along too, America~." He beamed, taking the helmet from America's hands. "Romano should be here any minute, so I'd better go put this back."

"Okay~." America nodded, then added thoughtfully, "You know, I'd be happy to get you a gun or two for the next time you have to give someone 'the talk'. It always works really well for me." He folded his arms, tapping his chin in thought. "How do you feel about rifles? You look like a rifle kind of guy."

Feliciano paused near the door, blinking uncertainly. "Ve..."

"Feliciano doesn't need a rifle, idiot." They turned to see Romano standing in the doorway, apron over his clothes. "He'd shoot himself in the foot. And why are you offering my brother firearms, anyway?" He asked, frowning.

"It's good to be prepared!" America explained, and waved with a smile. "Hi Romano! Er..." Recalling that Romano was still mad at him, he slowly lowered his hand, eyes sliding off to the side with slightly hunted look. Inwardly, Romano winced, feeling guilty. Crap. He looked down, fiddling with the straps of the bag he held. Dammit, he didn't want America to look like that when he was around...

"D-don't make that face, idiot. It doesn't suit you." He muttered. America looked up.

"What?"

"You heard me, dammit." Romano said, looking off to the side.

"Um." The blond nation shifted uncertainly.

Romano sighed, ruffling his hair in frustration, and brushed past his brother to stomp up to the taller nation, thrusting the bag at him. "This is for you, bastard."

"Oh, thank you." America said, taking the bag and smiling little cautiously. "I'm actually kind of hungry now, so this will be nice to have when I get back."

Romano relaxed slightly. If the idiot was getting hungry again already, he couldn't be _too_ upset anymore. "I thought that might be the case." He confessed, crossing his arms. "So I, uh, made some quick treats you can eat on the way back, to tide you over. Just so, you know, you don't faint from hunger or something. They're in the container on top."

"Really?" America looked in the bag, pulling out the container in question and prying the lid off. "Hey, cookies! Thanks, Romano! But why are they shaped like little bones?" Behind them, Feliciano snorted, slapping a hand over his mouth.

"What?" asked Romano, bewildered, and grabbed the container from the American's hands, "They're not-" He stopped, blinking down at the -very definitely- bone-shaped cookies that lay inside.

"Romano's been thinking about getting a puppy." Feliciano piped up through his fingers, lips twitching as he tried to hold in his laughter. "He must have been thinking about it when he was making them."

"You want a puppy, Romano?" America asked curiously, grabbing one of the cookies from the box Romano still held.

"No. Maybe. I don't know." Romano scowled, glaring at his brother and thrusting the cookies back into America's hands. "They're a lot of trouble. And they always run off."

"They do? That's odd." America frowned thoughtfully, polishing off another cookie. "Maybe you're getting the wrong type. Y'know, American dogs are pretty loyal and friendly. I could help you find one if you'd like."

Feliciano whimpered. "Oh, I think he has one in mind." Romano buried his face in his hands. This wasn't happening, dammit.

"Really?" America popped a third cookie in his mouth. "Okay then. I tell you what though, if he gets to eat stuff like this all the time, he's going to be one damn lucky dog." He said, licking his fingers. Then he grinned, teasing, "Y'know Romano,_ I'd_ be happy to be your puppy if you fed me. You definitely wouldn't have to worry about me running away." As Romano turned scarlet, Feliciano collapsed, giggling helplessly. America blinked at him, surprised. "It wasn't _that_ funny."

"Yes it was, yes it was!" The younger Italian gasped. "It really, really was!"

"_Veneziano!_" Romano hissed through the hands covering his face, thoroughly mortified."_Chigi!_"

"Sorry, Romano~." Feliciano wiped the tears from his eyes and stood, struggling to compose himself. "Oh, ve~." He took a deep breath, and smiled. "Mm, I'm going to go to the cellar to pick out some wine to bring to Germany's later, so I'll say goodbye now." He said, crossing over to America and wrapping his arms around the taller nation. Going up on his toes, he pressed a kiss to the surprised American's cheek, and whispered "Good luck." The blond smiled his thanks. Giving his brother a quick hug and kiss, he waved and left the room. "Bye bye!~"

"Bye!" America waved back, and turned his attention to the elder brother. Clearing his throat, he put the cookies away. "I, uh, wanted to say thanks." He started. "For everything. I had a great time yesterday, with, you know, everything. I'm really glad I met Nino and Amata and I learned a lot about suits and Italian food and, well, I really liked hanging out with you. I, I really like you, Romano, and I know you're kind of mad at me but-"

"I'm not mad at you, bastard." Romano interrupted.

"W-what?"

Romano sighed, dropping his hands from his face. "I'm not mad at you. _Really_." He reiterated at the other's doubtful look, "It's just...been a long morning. Alright? But it's not you I'm upset with, idiot."

"Alright. If you say so." America wasn't entirely convinced, but he was willing to let it go for now. "I'm still sorry about your coffeepot, though. I know it meant a lot to you, and I'm going to make it up to you, I promise."

"Meant a- what?" Romano's brows furrowed in confusion. Why would a coffeepot mean a lot to him?

"And I understand why you would be upset about it. But I-"

"I _don't care_ about the _coffeepot_, dammit." The Italian rubbed his forehead, exasperated. "It's a _coffeepot_. I can get another one anywhere."

"You don't have to do that. I broke it, so I'll replace it." America insisted. "I'll get you a new one. A better one. I promise."

Romano threw up his hands. "Don't _worry_ about it, bastard. It's not like you broke an heirloom or something. Why are you so concerned about the damn pot?"

"'Cause if it's not the pot, I don't know what I did _wrong!_" America wailed dejectedly, to the other's shock. "I _know_ I did _something_, 'cause I know you're upset with me and you haven't looked at me _all day_ and I don't know why and I _know_ you didn't want to hang out with me at first but I thought yesterday went okay but you don't want to hang out with me anymore and if it's not the coffeepot then _I don't know how to fix it!_" He sat down on the coffeetable, taking off his glasses to rub at his eyes, sniffing heavily.

Romano winced, feeling all kinds of low. He hadn't thought America would _notice_ that he wasn't looking at him. He hadn't meant to _hurt_ the idiot, he'd just been trying to keep _himself_ from getting hurt. Obviously he'd underestimated the American's perceptiveness. Besides, he'd always thought America didn't notice or care what anyone thought of him. The superpower certainly acted that way most of the time. Apparently he cared more than he'd realized.

Taking a step forward, he lifted a hand hesitantly, and bit his lip, debating. Oh, what the hell, he had a lot to make up for. He sighed, and reached out to pet the other's head. Immediately, America latched onto him, face pressed into his stomach, wrapping his arms tightly around the Italian's torso. Ignoring his rising blush, Romano patted his shoulder, and continued to pet him gently, running his hand soothingly over golden hair. "I never said I don't want to hang out with you anymore, idiot." He muttered reluctantly. America sniffled into his apron. "And I'm not upset with you. It isn't you, okay? I've just been worrying about something stupid. You didn't do anything wrong."

"...Really?" America asked, voice muffled.

"I said so, didn't I? A-and," He continued, blush deepening, "i-if you really want to, I...I guess I could show you around Italy sometime. A little. Not a tour," He added hastily, "but, y'know, around."

"...Really?" America asked hopefully, arms tightening around his midsection.

"...Sure. Maybe. If I'm not busy."

America nodded into his stomach. "Okay. I can work with that."

"Now that we've got that straight, you can let go of me, idiot." He said gruffly, prodding the blond's shoulder.

"I don't want to." America answered childishly, pressing closer. "You smell really good."

Romano buried his face in America's hair. His ears _burned_. "_Idiot_, you _idiot_. Y-you don't...I don't," He ground out, his fingers twisting in the back of Germany's stupid, stupid shirt.

"...Romano?"

"I don't _get_ it, bastard." The Italian confessed brokenly, miserable in his confusion. "Why me? _Why_, dammit? What could I _possibly_ have to offer?"

America shifted so his chin rested on Romano's chest, looking up at him with an equally confused expression. He didn't understand the question. "What do you mean?"

Hazel eyes slid to the side, unable to meet the other nation's gaze. "I, I'm not nice or cute or friendly like Feliciano, and I'm not _good_ at anything like trade agreements or art or international relations, and I'm weak and clumsy and _nobody _wants me and-"

His stream of insecurity was halted when a warm hand closed firmly over his mouth. Taken aback, his eyes went wide, and he looked down to see America looking up at him with an odd expression, blue eyes narrowed. Replaying what he'd just said, he winced internally. Dammit, now America would realize he'd been wasting his time and-

"Romano," America started, halting his train of thought. "I don't know where you heard all that..._bullshit_, and frankly, I don't want to know. I'm really kind of pissed right now, and I don't think it would end well." He added thoughtfully, and looked away, frowning, eyes sharp. The fingers of his other hand drummed agitatedly against Romano's back.

"First of all, I'm not here on business." He said after a few moments, turning back to Romano. "I don't really care if you're any 'good' at trade and stuff. If you're concerned about it, I'd be happy to help you get better. I'm pretty good at it. But your trade ability, or how hard you work, has no effect on how much I like you."

"Secondly," He continued earnestly, "you're damn _awesome_. Your brother adores you and your people adore you, and it's not hard to see why. You're beautiful and amazing and interesting and I've learned more from you in two days than I have from England in _decades_. Not that I listen to him much anyway," he added as an aside, "but that's not the point. You _kick ass_. You know it, and I know it." His hand slid up to cup the Italian's face, his lips quirking up. "What happened to all the confidence you had when you were telling me about your architecture in the diner? Or teaching me about your food, or explaining clothes and stuff? Or defending me from mafia, which was still the coolest thing ever, by the way." He grinned, and Romano dropped his gaze, blushing and crossing his arms.

"Cheh. I know I'm awesome." He blustered. "B-but, it's just," he bit his lip, uncertainly.

"'Just' nothing." America insisted. "You're amazing, Romano, no buts about it. I would know- I'm pretty awesome myself." He grinned again. "Takes a hero to know a hero, right?"

"Cheh. Whatever, idiot." Romano snorted, dragging a sleeve across his eyes (he couldn't quite stop the smile tugging at his lips, though).

"Now that we've got that settled," America released Romano and stood, sliding Texas back onto his face. "I should really get going. I've got a lot of stuff to do before we can hang out again."

"'Kay." Romano nodded, taking the bag from the table and handing it over. "There's a list of instructions taped to one of the containers so you know what needs to be heated and what doesn't, and how to do it right. Make sure you follow them, bastard. I don't want to find out you exploded anything or started any fires, alright?"

"That's so much work!" America complained as he accepted the bag. "I'll just eat it cold. It doesn't really matter."

"Don't do that, dammit, you'll get a stomachache." Romano ordered, frowning.

"Pffft, I haven't had a stomachache in _forever_." The blond dismissed. "I don't think it's possible."

The Italian sighed. "Just heat the damn food, idiot."

America shrugged. "Well, alright. But only because you cooked it." Then he held out his arms, looking at the other nation expectantly.

"What?" Romano asked warily, taking a half-step back.

"I'm waiting for my goodbye hug." The blond explained, as if it should be obvious.

"I don't give goodbye hugs, dammit. My brother's just a big sap."

"Aw." America pouted, resolutely holding out his arms. "Just a little one?" He begged, eyes wide and beseeching.

_Dammit_. The half-nation blushed again, and stepped forward to wrap his arms around the other nation in a brief hug, stepping back quickly.

"You forgot the kiss, too." America insisted, and Romano growled, pushing up on his toes to press his lips to the idiot's cheek in a swift peck. When he stepped back this time, America was blushing, but his smile was blinding. "S-so, uh, goodbye." The blond stammered, smiling maniacally. "I uh," He took a step back, and tripped over the coffeetable, just barely catching himself before he hit the floor. "Whoops." He said sheepishly, smile never leaving his face as he struggled back to his feet and eased around the coffeetable. "I'll just, go now." He said, rocking up on his toes, and backed blindly into the cabinet. "Ah, oops." He rubbed the back of his neck embarrassedly, and turned to leave, beaming at Romano over his shoulder and therefore not seeing the wall until he slammed into it, falling onto his back with a yelp of surprise. "I, uh, think I missed the doorway." He confessed after a moment, blinking at the ceiling.

"No shit, bastard." Romano muttered, crossing over to haul the American up by the wrist. "C'mon, idiot. Before you break my whole house." He growled, tugging America through the doorway and into the foyer. Grabbing the American's helmet off of the stand near the coat rack, he turned. "Lean down, idiot."

"Oh hey, that's where that was!" America exclaimed, leaning forward so Romano could slip it on.

"You have your jacket, bastard?" Romano asked, fastening the straps under the other's chin.

"Yep, it's on the 'bike."

"Okay. Make sure you put it on before you drive, moron. And don't crash into anything else on the way home." Romano ordered, grabbing America's wrist again and opening the front door.

"Psssht, I'll be fine! I could drive that 'bike in my _sleep_."

Romano stopped, facepalming. He didn't want to know how America even knew that. "That's not something I wanted to hear, dammit."

"It's alright, I don't think I could sleep for a while." America insisted, and Romano _knew_ he was still wearing that smile under his helmet.

"...Maybe you should call when you get home. Not that I care whether you crash or not, but, you know, I'd like to know if all my good food went to waste." He muttered, shoving the taller nation out the door.

"Okay. And I'll call you later about showing me around, 'kay? We'll work out a time that works for you."

"Whatever, idiot."

"Great." America rocked up on the balls of his feet, clasping the bag in front of him. "So, uh, goodbye, then."

"Bye."

"Bye!" America waved. Romano shut the door behind him as he turned away, and leaned against the solid wood, closing his eyes, feeling the deep flush spread over his entire body. He just barely heard the roar of America's motorcycle over the pounding of his heart in his ears. He listened until the sound faded in the distance (his blush fading with it), and sighed.

"Romano?" Romano spun at the sound of his brother's voice. Feliciano stood at the foot of the stairs, holding a bottle of wine and watching him with concern. "Ve~...is everything okay?"

Romano took a deep breath and nodded, ruffling a hand through his hair. "Yeah." He exhaled, lips curling up in a smile. "Yeah. It's okay."

"Good." Feliciano smiled back. Then his lips twitched, and he grinned, tilting his head thoughtfully. "You know," he said innocently, tapping his chin. "I have to stop by the store later to pick up some things for Germany. Want me to pick up a collar while I'm there?"

"_HE'S NOT A PUPPY, dammit! Chigi!"_

_

* * *

_

_AN: I promised the envelope would show up again, didn't I? Too bad you don't get to know what's in it, yet. *raspberries*_

_So, to sum up: Envelopes, protective brothers, helmets, top-secret prototypes (yes, all that is possible, although it's still under testing and **insanely** expensive), guns, cookies, diplomatic immunity, cultural idiosyncrasies, goodbyes, pep talks and puppies._


	28. If I Should Call You Up, Invest a Dime

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Nor Romerica, but it'd be nice if it was canon. **

_There's a lot of talking, so, sorry if it gets a little boring. _

_But still- it's Romano's first time! _

* * *

As he pulled into the garage and cut the engine, America had his cell inhand and Romano's number dialed before the kickstand hit the floor. He waited eagerly as it rang, grabbing his stuff and making his way inside.

Romano was just settling down on the couch to relax with a nice glass of wine when his cell rang. Setting the bottle on the coffee table, he slipped it from his pocket, checked the number, and deigned to answer. "Hey, idiot. I see you made it home in one peice."

"Haha, hi Romano!" America laughed, smiling excitedly. "Yep, I got home okay."

"That's good. Well, I'll talk to-"

"Wait! You got time to talk?"

Romano considered, swirling the wine in his glass. Did he? Technically yes."What about?" He asked, warily.

"Anything, really. Just, y'know, talk."

"Just talk?"

"Yes."

"On the phone."

"Yep."

"With you."

"Uh-huh!"

"Again, bastard, I have to ask- why?"

"I dunno, sometimes it's just nice to spend a few hours on the phone with someone talking about nothing in particular."

"Why would I want to do that, bastard? Wait- _hours_?"

"'Cause it's nice! Well, it doesn't have to be hours, but, y'know, just some time. Talking. Haven't you ever done that?"

Romano thought about it. Had he? Not really, no. The only people who he talked to on the phone outside of work were his brother and Spain. Feliciano always brought up the potato-bastard after not-too-long at all and they'd end up fighting and Romano would hang up, which pretty much killed any chance at conversation. And there was only so long you could talk to Spain before he got distracted by something 'cute' or 'amazing' or both, and Romano would have to hang up before Spain's paroxysms gave him a headache. Or France or Prussia, those perverted bastards, would steal Spain's phone after a few minutes and make lewd comments or kissing noises or try to send him pictures of their vital regions and really, answering the phone when Spain called promised a headache either way.

Oh, right- and Germany sometimes called if something had happened to his brother. That never ended well either.

"Romano?"

"I'm still here, idiot."

"Okay. You were pretty quiet, I thought you might have hung up. I'm glad you didn't. So, can you talk?"

"...Why do you want to talk to me so much?"

"I dunno, I just like talking to you. You're interesting. And I like listening to your voice. It's really nice."

"..."

"Romano?"

Romano muttered something unintelligible into the phone.

"Sorry, what? I didn't catch that."

"I'm not going to talk to you if you say stuff like that, jerk."

"Haha, sorry."

A sigh. "So, what did you want to talk about?"

"Anything. Hey, when it says '20 minutes at 250 in the oven', what does that translate to in microwave time?"

"Don't put that in the microwave, put it in the oven. If you put it in the microwave, it'll get soggy, and you'll lose the texture. That's why it says 'oven' right on the paper."

"But that'll take forever. I'm hungry now!"

"It won't kill you to wait, bastard."

"I dunno, I'm pretty hungry."

"You're not going to starve to death if you don't eat for 20 minutes, idiot. It'll do you good to learn to wait. Make a man out of you."

"I'm a man already." America protested, pouting. "I'm lots of man."

"Uh-huh. Then be a man and wait for your food, bastard."

"That sucks. Hey, it says to put it in a 'casserole dish' before I put it in the oven. What's a casserole dish?"

"It's a baking dish. Haven't you ever cooked before?"

"I grill sometimes. Mostly I use the microwave or the pizza oven for everything else. Hmm. I'm not sure where I keep my cooking stuff. Hang on, lemme look around."

There was a pause, and the sound of several cupboards being opened and closed.

"Nope, nope, uh..." The clatter of metal. "Hm, there's a lot of different pans and stuff in here. Are they metal or ceramic?"

"They can be both, but it's probably the ceramic. What's it look like?"

"Uh... white and kind of squarish. It's got a clear glass lid, and grooves on the sides, um...there's a couple of different sizes of the white ones."

"That's a casserole dish, yeah. You'll want one that holds about two liters. And another one about the same size for the other stuff."

Hm. A liter was basically a quart, right? These should work, then. "Okay. I just dump it in?"

"Yeah, that's fine."

"'Kay. Why does it have to be a casserole dish?" America wondered as he worked. "Wouldn't a regular pan work?"

"It'd get hot, sure, but everything would dry out in a normal pan, bastard. The casserole dish holds the flavour in better."

"Really? Neat! So why don't we always use those, then? What's the point of the regular pans?"

"'Cause, bastard, you can't use a casserole dish for everything, it wouldn't turn out right. Sometimes you want somethin' to get crisp or- wait, why do I have to explain this to you? I'm not your damn cooking teacher."

"It's interesting, though! We've got like, a cultural exchange goin' on here."

"An exchange? And just what am I supposed to be getting out of this?"

"The pleasure of my company, of course!"

"Pffft." Romano snorted, lips curving up. "I deserve a _refund_, jackass."

"Aww, hey!" His pout turned into a smile when Romano chuckled on the other end of the line. Yay! He'd made Romano laugh! He grinned, bouncing on his toes as he grabbed the now-full dishes from the counter. "I can just put these right in the oven, right?"

"Sure. Did you preheat it?"

"...No? How do I do that?"

"Just turn it on and leave it for a while. Ten minutes or so should do it."

"No way! I have to wait an extra ten minutes? That sucks!"

"I thought you were a man, bastard." Romano taunted, pouring himself another glass of wine.

"I am! But," America whined, "I'm a _hungry _man. And I've waited so long already. Can't I just eat it cold?"

"If you're that hungry, just eat the stuff that doesn't need to be heated while you wait. Okay?"

"Yay!"

"Cheh. You and your stomach." Romano rolled his eyes as he leaned back, putting his feet up on the coffee table. "Make sure you heat the oven first, dammit. And don't forget to put the food in when it's warmed up, or you'll have to wait even longer."

"Haha, okay. I can do that!" America agreed cheerfully, pleased that he didn't have to wait forever to eat anymore.

Romano's phone alerted him that he had an incoming call, and he made a little sound in the back of his throat. "I'm gonna have to let you go, bastard. I got another call."

"Aw, wait! Can't you just switch over? I can wait."

"...Alright, but don't be surprised if I forget about you."

"Haha, okay."

"Don't forget to set the timer for your food, either."

"I will!"

"'Kay, switching."

America heard the click, and looked around for a timer. He could just set the microwave timer, right? That should work. As he was doing that, the line clicked again, and Romano came back on.

"Nevermind, it was just my idiot brother."

"That was fast. He didn't have much to say?"

"I'm sure he had plenty to say. I'm just not talking to the idiot."

"Why, you mad at him?"

"Damn right I'm mad at him. Know what that bastard did?"

"No, what?"

"That _idiot _Feliciano left my _helmet_ in the damn _wine_ cellar. The wine cellar! What the fuck. What the _hell_ was he doing with my helmet, anyway? And seriously, the _wine cellar?_" Romano growled. He'd practically torn the house apart looking for it (wondering the whole time- Had he lost it somehow? Had a thief gotten in the house? Had, had America taken it back? ) before the moron had seen fit to mention it. Romano had Not Been Happy.

"That's odd. He said he was going to put it back."

"...You knew he had it? What the hell was he doing with my helmet, bastard?"

"Well, he thought it was mine. We were looking for my helmet, 'cause I couldn't find it."

"That's stupid. Why would you have a helmet with my name on it? And why didn't you just ask me, idiot? I knew where it was."

"Well, I thought you were mad at me." Romano winced. Oh, yeah. Right. "And I don't think he noticed it at first. I think he just grabbed the first helmet he saw and assumed it was mine."

"Cheh, figures."

"It's good that you found it, though." America said, checking the timer. "Actually, do you have it around you now? Or can you get it?"

Romano looked down at the helmet sitting in his lap, still clutched possessively in the hand not holding his wine glass. "...Maybe."

"Okay, cool. Lemme know when you've got it. I'm going to put the food in the oven and set the timer, and then I wanna try something."

"You wanna try something?"

"Yep!"

"With my helmet."

"Yes. Well, sort of. Hang on." He put the food in the oven and set the timer, and then headed out of the kitchen. "Gimme a sec, I have to go out to my 'bike."

"...Why?"

"You'll see! Well, if this works, anyway. You got your helmet?"

"Yeah, I got it."

"Great." America lifted his own helmet from his handlebars, and said, "Okay, got it. You ready?"

"Ready for what, bastard?"

"You'll see! Put on your helmet, 'kay?"

"What, right now?"

"Yes!"

"Why?"

"Just do it. Please?"

"...Alright. But if it explodes or starts on fire or anything like that, I'm going to kill you, bastard. You know that, right?"

"It won't! The worst that'll happen is...well, nothing, actually. Just put it on, please?"

"'Nothing' as in 'it's so horrible that I don't want to tell you' or 'nothing' as in 'nothing will happen'?"

"Ro_manooo_." America whined.

"Okay, okay, putting it on." Setting his phone down on the couch, Romano slipped his helmet over his head and waited.

"You got it on?"

"Yes dammit, I've got it on."

"Sweet. Hi, Romano!"

"Hi yourself, bastard. What-" Then Romano realized that the voice he was hearing was not, in fact, coming from his phone, but through the helmet. "Holy shit. What the hell?"

"I know, right? Our helmets are satellite linked! Cool, huh? I wasn't sure it would work, but it does. Isn't this awesome?" America effused through the helmet speakers. "This is great! Now we don't need phones to talk to each other!"

"..."

"Romano?"

"..."

"Romano? Hm, maybe it lost connection...Romano? Hello?"

"...I'm curious, bastard."

"Hey, Romano! Great, I thought I'd lost you. What's up?"

"Did it occur to you at all that this could be considered, I don't know, a little bit...creepy?"

"Why would it be creepy? It's so cool! Isn't it?"

A sigh.

"Yeah, it's cool. How much did this _cost _you?"

"Not as much as you'd think, actually. I already have a satellite, so it was really just a matter of linking both helmets up. I didn't have the chance to test it beforehand, so I'm glad it works."

"You _have_ a satellite?"

"Yeah. I launched my own telecomm satellite a while back, for fun. I thought it would be cool to have. Plus, it comes in handy sometimes. Like for this!"

"You're something else, bastard."

"Haha, thanks!"

"I'm not sure that was a compliment."

"Well, I'll take it as one until you decide for sure. I'm going to switch back to the phone, okay? It's hard to eat with the helmet on."

Romano removed his own helmet, replacing it in his lap as he picked up his phone. That was...interesting. He wasn't exactly sure how he felt about it, really. If it'd been anyone else he might be worried, but...it was hard to be too concerned when the young nation was all excited and so clearly oblivious to the possible implications that could be attached to his modifications. His fingers drummed the helmet. One thing, at least, was clear- America obviously had no concept of 'overkill'.

"Romano? You there?"

"Hey, bastard. Is there anything else I should know about this helmet?"

"What do you mean?"

"Any other hidden features I should know about before I put it on? X-ray vision or radar or, I don't know, missiles?"

"Um, no. That's pretty much everything, I think. I wasn't even sure the satellite linkup would work."

"No explosives? Anything like that."

"No, that's pretty much it. Why, did you want some? I'm not sure about X-ray vision, but I could probably swing radar and maybe some sort of...laser or something. I don't know about missiles, though." He added thoughtfully. "I don't think it'd be that safe to have something explosive on your head, Romano. Especially something designed for, well, impact."

"...No, that's okay."

"You sure? I might be able to-"

"No. No, it's fine the way it is, bastard."

"Okay! Lemme know if you change your mind, though."  
"Yeah, I'll do that." Uh-huh, sure. Romano shook his head, pouring himself another glass of wine. If he ever needed the world's first nuclear-powered helmet, he knew who to call. He relaxed back onto the couch again, deciding that as long as it wasn't going to kill him, then he was okay with it.

It _was_ kinda cool, actually.

Plus, it could save him a _ton_ on international calls, if this became some sort of habit.

Which, as he listened to the American humming happily on the other end of the line, he was beginning to suspect it would.

* * *

Several hours later, night had long since fallen, and Romano was once again surprised to find that he was...kind of enjoying himself. Sure, they weren't talking about anything in particular, and okay, sometimes America would say something so...utterly _stupid_ and ridiculous that he had to facepalm or set the idiot straight (or something that would deeply embarrass him and he'd be sorely tempted to hang up), but it was kind of...nice...in a way, to just..._talk_ to someone without the conversation degenerating into an argument or a one-sided monologue of cuteness or a string of apologies and whining. Sure, they disagreed on some things, but America didn't seem to take it personally like Feliciano tended to or complain how 'uncute' he was being like Spain sometimes did. America surprised him by being a halfway decent listener, actually (Feliciano was a good listener if you could get him to stop obsessing over Germany for ten minutes straight, but Spain had the attention span of a squirrel on espresso). The young nation seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say (and though he wouldn't have admitted it except perhaps under pain of torture, that might have made him feel all warm and, and, sort of glowy inside. Maybe. But it was probably the wine, dammit).

And it was kind of...nice to have company for once. Not that he was lonely or anything. It was just, well, sometimes it got ...really quiet in the house, during the numberless days when he was by himself- which didn't bother him, dammit, he was _fine_ alone, even if it did seem sometimes like the hours were endless, and the nights lasted forever, and the emptiness of the house echoed with every move he made.

"Hey, Romano?"

"Hm?"

"I'm really glad- well, um...that is... thanks, for talkin' to me. It's, um, it's kind of nice." America confessed shyly. "To have someone to talk to, I mean. It's usually just me in the house, and, well, it can get really quiet, you know? So this is... really nice. I really like talking to you."

Romano gripped the phone tightly, his ears growing warm.

"R-romano?"

"Y-you're not completely terrible to talk to yourself, bastard. Sometimes." He admitted. America made a little humming sound of acknowledgement on the other end of the line, and Romano could _hear_ the smile the idiot was wearing. His flush spread hotly down his neck.

Then America yawned, deep and slow, and Romano realized that he was pretty tired, himself.

"I, I should probably let you go, bastard. It's pretty late. Don't you work in the morning?"

"Mm, yeah, but, I don't want to stop talking to you." America protested.

"You've gotta sleep sometime, bastard. I should probably get some rest, too. It's been a long day."

"Yeah, but, I don't want this to end." America pouted. "Can't we just, y'know, take the phones with us? That way we can talk 'til we fall asleep."

"I-if we do that, idiot, we'll just drop the phones when we fall asleep, and they might break. B-besides, the phone bill would be insane."

"I guess." America agreed reluctantly, and sighed. "Oh, wait! I know!"

"I'm not taping the phone to my head, dammit."

"Haha, that's not a bad idea. But I was thinking we could use the helmets."

"What?"

"We can sleep in our helmets! That way we can fall asleep together without worrying about dropping the phones or bills or anything. It'll be perfect!"

"...But we'd have to sleep in our helmets." Romano pointed out.

"I've slept in my helmet before. It's not that bad. Just this time I'll have a good reason! Please?"

"But, we'll be _sleeping_. It's not like we'll be talking, or anything."

"Yeah, but, I'll know you're there, and it'll help me sleep better. It's okay if we don't talk. It's enough knowing you're there."

Romano exhaled slowly, burying his face in his knees. He worried his lip fiercely for a moment. "A-alright, bastard. J-just this once."

"Great." America beamed through the phone. "Let's go get ready for bed, and then we can switch to the helmets, okay?"

"Nh." Leaving the (now-empty) bottle and his wineglass on the table, helmet clutched in one hand and phone in the other, Romano went up the stairs to his room, worrying his lip nervously the whole way. Once there he placed the helmet carefully on his pillows and stripped, tossing his clothes into the corner of the room and crawling slowly under the covers. He fidgeted nervously with the bedclothes, adjusting the blankets minutely and carefully positioning the pillows, even though he normally just fell into bed and dropped off without even bothering to pull the covers up over himself half the time.

"Romano? You ready?" America's voice came through the phone, startling him slightly and making him jolt, nearly dropping his phone.

"Y-yeah."

"Alright. I'm all set, so I'm going to put on the helmet and hang up, okay?"

"'Kay." Romano set his phone down and lifted the helmet from his pillows, slowly slipping it over his head. He wasn't nervous, dammit, it was just really cold in here. Once it was in place, he curled up on his side under the blankets, squeezing a pillow tightly in his arms (half hoping it would absorb his embarrassment. He had nothing to be embarrassed about, dammit!).

"Romano? You there?"

"Y-yeah, bastard. I'm here."

"Great." America smiled. "You comfortable?"

"Mh."

"Good. Me too." He yawned, and Romano could hear the rustle of cloth as he settled into his own pillow. "'S is really nice."

Romano grunted non-committally, and they lay in silence for a while, just listening to each other breath. It was...actually kind of comforting, and slowly the tension left the Italian's body, allowing drowsiness to overcome him. This was nice. Kind of peaceful, even.

"H'y, 'Mano?" America said sleepily after a while.

"Hm?" Romano responded, already half-asleep himself.

"I jus' 'membered- you nev'r told me 'bout that puppy y'wanted." He murmured drowsily.

"...Go to sleep, bastard."

"M'kay." He yawned contentedly. "'Night, 'Mano."

"G'night, bastard." Curled around his pillow, warm and snug under the covers, and lulled by the sound of America's steady breathing, Romano fell asleep.

* * *

_AN: So tired. _

_I have no real control over these dudes, they do whatever they want regardless of what I'd planned. Which...usually turns out okay, anyway, so I have to try and condition myself to stop fighting them on it and let it go. I will say though, I had no idea America's present could be considered kind of ...iono, stalkerish, maybe? Overkill, definitely...until Romano kind of freaked out about it. I was all 'what the heck is he so nervous about? I think it's cool! But then I looked at it from his point of view and was all 'oh. I guess that is a bit...'_

_Still, it worked out okay. Luckily America **didn't** put any weapons or incendiary devices in there, I was curious about that. He really went all out on that helmet, though. I'm starting to worry about what he has planned for the coffeemaker. I don't think he'd be able to get a robot one, but he's surprised me before._

_Maybe he'll just have Tony stand in for the robot, wearing the sexy-waiter outfit to make Romano's coffee for him. Do aliens make good coffee? Hm. _


	29. Interlude: From Rome, With Love

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

**_Warning: This is crack, of the purest sort._**

_I've had a ...long...week. So I needed a little break, and, well, I wanted to thank you guys for...well, being so awesome and sweet and helpful and...really, you have no idea how much you, all of you, yes, even you lurkers (don't worry, I don't demand reviews, I'm just glad you're enjoying the story), well...anyway, I wanted to do something to show my appreciation, and since I got an overwhelming amount of PMs and reviews asking for America in a collar, well..._

_This is what came out when I let my brain go and my fingers do the work. If it's not your kind of thing, feel free to skip this chapter- it won't have much bearing on future chapters, to the best of my knowledge. It is, as the title says, an 'interlude'. 'Brain candy', as my mother would say._

_I hope you enjoy it. Try not to take it too seriously- remember, it's basically cotton candy in word form._

_Bon appetit!_

* * *

A knock on the door woke the nation from his slumber. He sat up, blinking, surprised to see the bright Italian sunlight spilling over his sheets. He'd slept this late? He was usually up before dawn. The sound of the door opening and closing downstairs reminded him why he'd woken in the first place, and he stumbled out of bed, wiping his face with a hand. It felt like he'd barely slept at all, dammit.

"Ve~, Romano~!" His brother's voice floated up from downstairs. "Romano, are you up~? I'm home!"

"'M up, I'm up, bastard." He called back, grabbing his shorts from the floor and trying to determine which end of them was up. Slipping them on, he snagged his shirt and exited the room, tugging it over his head as he went. "Make me breakfast, dammit."

"Mm, I will, but first let me put away these packages." His brother agreed amiably. "You'll never believe what I found, Romano~!"

"Yeah, I'm sure I won't." Romano sighed, running his hands through his hair to straighten it as he descended the stairs. His brother sometimes tended to come home with things that Romano, at least, felt were a bit frivolous or useless and completely unnecessary.

Like Germany.

There was a scratching sound at the front door, and Feliciano dropped his packages on the coffee table, hurrying back towards it. "Oh no! I forgot!" Reaching the door, he flung it open to reveal Germany waiting stoically on the doorstep. "Waaa~, Ludwig! I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to leave you outside! Poor boy," He exclaimed, reaching up to ruffle pale blond hair, scratching his ears in apology. Germany shook his head to settle his hair back in place, the tags on his studded collar jingling with the movement. "Come on, come in!" Feliciano said, stepping back to let the tall blond in. "Go sit on the couch while I get breakfast ready." Nuzzling the Italian in thanks, Germany trotted inside, his boots clicking on the hardwood floor as he made his way to the couch.

"You know I don't want that mutt on the couch, Feliciano." Romano complained. "He'll get his filth all over it."

"Ludwig's not filthy!" Feliciano threw his arms around the German's neck, "I just gave him a bath. Besides, you let _your_ puppy on the couch."

"That's different." Romano defended, crossing his arms with a blush. "Alfredo's _way_ better than your beast. That dog is dangerous." He added, pointing an accusing finger at the blond staring at him from the couch.

"Sure Ludwig's a little scary sometimes," Feliciano defended in turn, chin resting on Germany's shoulder. "but he's a good dog! He looks out for me."

"And if it wasn't for that, I would have had him put down a long time ago." Romano muttered, huffing slightly. "I still say we should have him neutered."

"Nooo!" Wailed his brother, pulling Ludwig close as the German laid his ears back and growled.

"D-don't you growl at me, mutt!" Romano blustered, backing up a few paces.

"Don't fight!" Feliciano scolded them both, petting the pointed, furry ears that sat atop Germany's head soothingly.

"Cheh." Romano shifted, looking around. "Where _is_ that idiot, anyway?" After all, food had been mentioned, and the blond with the bottomless stomach was nowhere in sight.

"Ah, he slipped outside when Ludwig and I went out this morning." Feliciano said apologetically, and Germany's ears twitched guiltily.

Romano slapped a hand to his forehead. "_Feliciano_, you _know_ what happens when you let him outside unsupervised."

"Ve~ I'm sorry~, it's just, he looked so sad to be left behind and he gave us that _look_ where he sort of droops and his eyes get really big and -"

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Romano interrupted, waving off their excuses. "Dammit, I'd better go find him before-"

"Romannnooo~!" An excited voice from outside the door was their only warning before it slammed open, America hurtling through it, a golden dynamo. "Romano, look what I found!"

Romano turned, dreading what he was about to see. Sure enough, America was proudly dragging a missile behind him, trying to figure out how to fit the whole thing through the door. He was having trouble getting the nose through the doorway without the fins catching on the stair rail outside.

Again, Romano's palm met his forehead. He counted to ten. It didn't help. "Al_fredo_." He ground out, and the American paused to smile widely at him, one pointed, silk-furred ear standing at attention (the other slightly floppy one doing its best to follow suit), golden tail wagging slowly.

"Hm?" He asked.

Romano sighed, rubbing his temple. "_What_ did I tell you about..." he gestured frustratedly at the missile, "_this_ sort of thing?"

"Um..." America's head cocked, ears twitching back as he thought for a moment. "Make sure it's disarmed before-"

"The _other_ thing, dammit."

"Oh!' America's ears perked again and he grinned, tail wagging madly. "No weapons of mass destruction in the house!"

"That's _right_. So why the _hell_ did you think dragging it in here was a good idea, idiot? Get it outside! Out!"

"Aw but, I wanted you to see-"

"_Outside_." Romano ordered.

"I told you he wouldn't like it." Germany commented idly from where he sat, chin resting on the back of the couch.

"You don't like it?" America asked his Italian, both ears and tail drooping as his blue eyes went wide and sad.

"I, I like it just fine, idiot." Romano answered, unable to stay mad in the face of... that face. Shooting Germany a dirty look over his shoulder, he added. "J-just, not in the house, okay?"

"Okay!" And just like that, the blond was happy again. "Hey Ludwig, want to come help me bury this? Then I want to show you these plans I've been working on for a new type of 'plane. You'll love it, it's awesome!"

"Alright." The German answered, leaving the couch to follow the American out the door. "It's a nice missile." He commented, examining the fuselage. "Where'd you find it?"

"I dug it up somewhere." The other answered idly. "Hey, we should totally bury this in Artie's yard!"

"That's an idea." Germany responded, his own tail wagging slightly as he helped guide the missile out of the doorway. "Or better yet, we can bury it in his flowerbed."

"Oooh, his prized dahlias? Great idea! He's gonna _flip_."

"We can watch from the top of my brother's doghouse in the next yard." There was the hint of a grin in Germany's voice.

"Awesome!"

"Hey! Be back in time for breakfast, bastards! And if you're going to that jerk Kirkland's place you make sure you stay away from his damn poodle, Alfredo. He's a bad influence, dammit." Romano yelled after the two as they left the yard, tails waving eagerly.

"Don't worry, Ludwig will keep them out of trouble." Feliciano reassured him from where he was unloading his shopping bags. "Anyway, I got something for you, Romano! Well, you and Alfredo."

"I told you dammit, we're _not_ going to wear matching underw- wait, what is that?" The elder Italian asked as his brother emptied a bag of brightly-colored collars onto the table.

"I just grabbed one of everything in Alfredo's size, ve~. Since you won't come to the store." His brother added, slightly chastizing. Romano frowned, sitting on the couch and lifting a red collar covered in rhinestones from the pile.

"Rhinestones, bastard? You could have at least eliminated the tacky ones, dammit." He complained as he flung the offending article over his shoulder, where it landed neatly in the wastebasket. He sifted quickly through the pile, removing anything leopard-spotted, striped, neon or covered in sparkly things, shoving them back into the bag, grumbling as he did so. "You're a goddamned _artist_, idiot. You're supposed to have better taste than this."

"Ve~, well, since you're being so stubborn about putting a collar on him, I thought maybe if I grabbed _everything_ you'd _finally_ find one you liked." Feliciano pouted, settling down next to his brother. "Here, how about this one? This would look good on him!" He leaned forward to snag one from the pile, lifting it for his brother's inspection.

"Ehhh..." Romano took the spiked black leather collar from his brother's outstretched hand, trying to imagine it on Alfredo. "Well..."

"It kind of matches Ludwig's and Gilbert's studded ones. Just, more spiky." Feliciano observed.

"You're not selling me on this." Romano responded dryly, dropping it back onto the pile. "Besides, knowing the idiot he'd find some way to impale himself on his own spikes."

"Ve~, chain?" His brother displayed a circle of thick silver chain dangling between his fingertips.

"He'll choke to death."

"The harness?"

"He'll get tangled up in it!"

"The _safety_ collar, ve~."

"He'll slip it five minutes after we put it on, dammit."

"You've got to choose _something_, Romano!" Feliciano said in exasperation, throwing up his hands. "If you don't get a collar on him, then someone else is going to pick him up and take him home, and then where will you be?"

"I _will_. Besides, idiot, it hasn't even been that long since he followed me home." Romano defended, hunching over and fingering the tangled mess on the table. Then he blinked, and brushed aside some of the top of the pile to pull a thick leather one from the bottom, brows raised in surprise. "Where the hell did you find a collar set with _bullets_?" He asked, nonplussed. Hm. Alfredo might like this one, actually. Still...

"There were a lot of collars." Feliciano explained, pleased that his brother was finally showing an interest. "Do you like it? It does sort of suit him, don't you think?"

"Maybe..." Romano agreed reluctantly, setting it aside from the others. "I'll keep it as a backup, I guess. But..."

"Romano..." His brother sighed, shaking his head. "Don't you _want_ Alfredo? He's such a nice puppy! And he really likes you. _And_ he gets along with Ludwig and me. And I like knowing you have someone around the house to keep you company and look out for you."

"I don't need looking after, dammit." Romano frowned, sliding down to lean against the back of the couch, arms crossing defensively. "And I...well...some of these are okay, but I want to get a collar for him _myself_. Something _special_." He sort of already had one in mind, in fact, but he didn't want to come out with it until he was sure. _Really_ sure.

The younger Italian pursed his lips. "Alright. But don't take too long." He cautioned, loading the rest of the collars back into the bag. "You never know what might happen. What if he gets lost? If someone finds him, they won't know where to return him! And he's such a sweet puppy, people are going to want to try and lure him away if they think he's available. Ludwig and I will help you look out for him, but you know he tends to rush into things sometimes, and we can't always be there."

"I don't need your help, dammit." Romano muttered. "I can take care of him just fine."

"Then put a collar on him, brother~." Feliciano smiled and stood, leaning down to kiss his brother's temple. "I'm going to go make breakfast now. Is there anything in particular you want to eat?"

"Anything you make is fine. Just make sure you make enough for-"

"Mm, I'll make extra for Alfredo." His brother agreed, nodding.

"Nothing with potatoes in it, though."

"Potatoes are very filling, Romano! And Ludwig likes them."

"Cheh, that doesn't mean we have to _eat_ the damn things. Besides, I don't want Alfredo growing up like that mutt." Romano frowned at the thought, helping his brother carry carry the bags into the foyer.

"Ve~, you know he's got a lot of German blood in him, though." Feliciano commented. "Alot of people do. Let's leave these here and we can put them away later." He added, dropping his burden at the bottom of the stairs.

"Ugh, don't remind me." Romano responded, dropping the bags where Feliciano indicated. "That Germania asshole sure got around."

"So did Grandpa Rome." Feliciano grinned and winked at his brother, who snorted, but didn't disagree. "Do you want to have espresso while you wait for breakfast?"

"Mm, alright. But I'll make it."

"Okay~!"

They retired to the kitchen, where Romano sat at the table with his espresso while Feliciano bustled around, chattering happily as he cooked. Occasionally Romano would help out when Feliciano needed a hand, but for the most part he just relaxed and enjoyed his brother's endless prattle, and the sounds and smells of good food in the process of preparation. If Alfredo would hurry up and come back from harassing the neighbors, this morning would be perfect (he wasn't too worried about what Arthur Kirkland might do to the pair- the man talked a big game, but had a soft spot for Alfredo, since the ravenous pup was the only one who could stomach his cooking).

A loud thump at the door interrupted their quiet (well, relatively, not counting Feliciano's chatter) morning. "Ve~, that must be the boys. It's good timing, breakfast is almost ready." Feliciano said, looking up from whatever he was stirring on the stove. "Can you let them in please, Romano? I can't leave this right now."

"Mm." Romano acquiesced, slipping out of his seat and heading for the door. He opened it, and was surprised to see Germany leaning against the doorframe, arms wrapped around his stomach, looking green and ill. "What the hell happened to you, bastard?"

"C-c-" Germany tried to respond, and cut off with a groan, ears plastered flat against his skull.

"Oi! Feli! Something's wrong with your mutt!" The Italian called over his shoulder. "Not that I care," he added disinterestedly, as his brother exited the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron and looking concerned. "I just don't want him ruining the entryway."

"Ve~, Ludwig? Ludwig!" The younger exclaimed upon seeing his German's sorry state. "What happened?"

"He..." Germany panted, and swallowed thickly. "He pulled his _cooking_ on us."

Feliciano gasped, horrified, and Romano couldn't help wincing at the thought, for all that he wasn't too fond of Germany. "My poor baby!" Feliciano cried, throwing his arms around Germany's neck in a comforting hug. He pulled back after a second to fuss over the blond, checking to make sure there wasn't too much damage done. "Come on, Ludwig. Come into the kitchen and we'll get you something to wash the taste out of your mouth."

Germany whimpered, groaning, "_Mein gott_, the taste is _everywhere_. It's, it's," He shuddered, "I'll taste it in my _nightmares_."

"Shhh, come on," Feliciano soothed, leading the ailing pup into the kitchens, and Romano followed. "it's okay, we'll get you some nice beer and I'll get the wurst out and it'll be alright, alright?" Germany nodded, sitting heavily into a chair, resting his head on the table. Feliciano grabbed a bottle from the fridge and opened it, offering it to the German, who grabbed it desperately, guzzling it like it was his only hope for salvation.

"You brought _beer_ into this house?" Romano asked disgustedly.

"Mhmm, it's good for him, and he likes it." Feliciano answered, absorbed in petting Germany, trying to ease his discomfort.

"Cheh. I don't see why he can't drink wine like a civilized person. Or why you have to keep it in _our_ fridge, dammit." Romano complained, crossing his arms.

"I keep it next to the twenty-four pack of soda, Romano~." Feliciano said sweetly. Romano blushed.

"Th-that's different! That's, just, it's a treat. For when he's really good." He defended, eyes sliding off to the side (or when he's thirsty, or when he wants one, or just because he's so _cute_ when he's happy, he didn't admit to himself). Then he blinked. "Wait. Where's Alfredo?"

"Gnh." Germany swallowed the last of the beer and took a deep breath. "He's _still there_. He _liked_ it." He shuddered again, ears flattening, and Feliciano patted him on the head before retrieving another beer from the fridge, as well as a package of wurst, which Germany tore into with equal desperation.

"Ugh." Romano wrinkled his nose. "Now he's going to have indigestion all afternoon. This is all your fault, dammit."

"It's not Ludwig's fault," Feliciano argued, "Alfredo suggested they go to Mister Kirkland's in the first place. And besides, he needs to learn not to eat everything he's given, Romano."

"He just does that 'cause he was a stray for so long!" Romano said. "He had to eat whatever he could get, dammit. He'll learn better in time."

"Mm, but you shouldn't blame it on Ludwig, Romano. Alfredo doesn't really listen to anyone but you, anyway."

"Cheh." Romano sighed. "I'd better go find the idiot before any permanent damage is done."

"That collar's on the table if you've changed your mind~." His brother remarked absently, stroking Germany's hair.

"Feliciano." Romano said warningly as he left the kitchen. "Don't push it, dammit. I'll do it when I'm ready."

"Ve~, breakfast will be on the table in fifteen minutes." His brother called after him, letting the subject drop. "We'll have your places ready for you."

"Your brother is going to collar Alfredo?" He heard Germany ask interestedly as he left, slamming the door behind him. Why was everyone so damn interested in his and Alfredo's relationship? It was no-one's business but theirs, dammit.

He found America still at England's place, eating biscuits from a plate the British man held, with every sign of enjoyment. "Alfredo!" He called, and the American turned.  
"Hi Romano!" He grinned, tail wagging. "Artie's been feeding me cookies!"

"_Biscuits_, boy. And it's 'Arthur'. Or 'Mister Kirkland'." England corrected stiffly. "And I'm rather glad you like them." He added, a little more warmly. "You're welcome to have as many as you wish."

"Thank you!" America grabbed a handful of biscuits from the plate, to England's pleasure.

"Stop trying to poison him, dammit." Romano growled at England, seizing America's arm and dragging him away from the dangerous substance and the man who held it. "That food of yours should be banned under international treaty."

"Well, I never." England sniffed, deeply offended. "I'll have you know he quite likes my cooking, thank-you. _Some_ people just have no taste. Or manners." He added, nose in the air.

"You're one to talk, bastard." Romano muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes as he led America back towards home. America looked back and shouted,

"Thanks Artie! I'll see you later!"

"_Arthur. _And it's my pleasure, boy. You're welcome back anytime to sample more." England called back, returning to his own house with the now-empty plate and a pleased smile.

"You shouldn't eat that garbage, Alfredo." Romano scolded, taking the cookies from America's hands and tossing them into a convenient bush. America watched them go sadly.

"Aww, I was eating those." He protested. "They were okay! They almost tasted like real food this time."

"Ugh, you're going to get yourself killed eating junk like that."

"No way! It's not as good as your cooking, but it's totally mostly edible. I had like, three plates full and I'm okay!"

Romano glanced at him warily. Three plates? He counted down the seconds, waiting for the inevitable...

Suddenly, America's ears flattened against his head, and he whimpered. "I don't feel so good." He moaned. Romano sighed, tugging him off to the gutter, removing his glasses and holding his hair back as the blond knelt to empty his stomach into the rain sewer.

"Better, idiot?" He asked after a while, when the heaving seemed to have stopped. America's tail waved weakly.

"Mm, a bit. I'm okay." He smiled, still a little pale. Romano finger-combed golden blond hair, and slipped America's glasses back on his nose.

"Let's go home, then. Feliciano's got breakfast ready."

America shook his head and stood, color returning to his face. "That's good. I'm starting to get hungry again. You didn't cook?" He asked, fixing Romano with a look that wasn't quite disappointment, but still made Romano's stomach twist with something a little like guilt.

"N-no. Not breakfast. B-but, I'll make you some treats later. Maybe." He said, eyes sliding off to the side. America beamed, nuzzling his cheek.

"Yay! You make the best treats. Can they be shaped like rockets?"

"Get off of me, bastard. You _reek_." Romano complained, tweaking a soft ear halfheartedly. "And why the hell would they be shaped like rockets?"

"'Cause rockets are awesome!" America answered readily, huffing into his hand to smell his breath, and wrinkling his nose. Ew, he _did_ reek. Oh well, he shrugged. He could fix that when they got back.

"We'll see, idiot. No promises, though. Wait, didn't you bury that missile in the brow-bastard's flowerbed? Why was he feeding you cookies?"

"Oh, well, we didn't get to bury it in his garden. We were going to, but then Ludwig's brother asked if he could have it for a trick he was going to play on Roderich, and Ludwig said it was okay as long as we removed the warhead, so we ended up just burying the warhead instead, but that's a lot smaller so I don't think he noticed yet."

"Ha, the mutt's brother's playing a prank on Miss Elizabeta's precious pussy-boy? She's going to _kill_ him. Chop him to little bitty mutt-bastard peices and fry him up in that pan of hers." Romano snickered. "If that sissy bastard Roderich doesn't scratch the moron's eyes out first."

"Is that why he's always all scratched up?" America asked curiously, head cocked. "I thought it was 'cause he's always hanging out with Antonio."

"Nah, Antonio doesn't scratch much anymore. Not since he got over his territorial phase." Romano explained, waving dismissively.

"Interesting. We saw him sleeping in a tree at that nice blonde lady's house on the way, and I was going to wake him up to say hi, but Ludwig said cats don't like to have their siestas interrupted, so I didn't. Did you know that cats don't like to be woken up? They sleep alot!"

"Mhm, that's right. So keep your nose out of their business while they sleep if you don't want to get scratched up, bastard."

"Okay, I'll try and remember." America nodded, then his ears perked up. "Yay, we're home!" He bounced around Romano excitedly as the Italian opened the door, and followed him to the kitchen, tail waving eagerly. "Hi Romano's brother! Hey Ludwig! Why'd you go? There was lots of cookies!" He greeted the blond at the table as he pulled a chair out for Romano, who blushed but sat without comment.

"Don't remind me." Germany groaned, ears twitching back.

"Ve~, welcome back, you two." Feliciano smiled cheerfully, untying his apron and seating himself. "You're just in time. I just finished filling everyone's plates."

"Great, I'm starving. And I kinda need to get this taste out of my mouth." America admitted, sitting down and digging in eagerly.

"Tell me about it." Germany sighed in agreement, reaching for his beer.

* * *

After breakfast they retired to the veranda, full and sated, sprawling across the lounge sofa and chairs. The early afternoon sun was warm, and they soaked it up in silent contentment, Italians sipping their wine and Germany his beer, enjoying the clear blue skies and the camellias blooming in the arbour above them. America opted instead to toy idly with a rubber hamburger, as he, too, enjoyed the quiet of the moment. The occasional thump of his tail against a chair leg or squeak of his toy were the only sounds in the still afternoon air.

After a while he wriggled over to Romano, settling his head against the Italian's shoulder to whine, "I'm thirsty."

"You know where the soda is, bastard." Romano responded absently, stroking a soft furry ear.

"I can have a soda? Yay!" He squirmed happily, nuzzling Romano's ear in thanks before trotting inside the house. About ten minutes later (just when Romano was starting to wonder if he'd gotten lost on the way to the kitchen- or more likely, was devouring everything inside the 'fridge) he came back out, grinning excitedly. "Hey, Romano! I found this awesome ammo belt just sitting on the table! Look!" He leaned over the back of the sofa the others sat on, dangling the bullet-set collar for their inspection. "It's really small though. I tried it on but it doesn't fit. Can you make it bigger?"

"Uh," Romano swallowed, glancing at his brother, who gave him a significant look. "That's... not a belt, bastard."

"It isn't?" America asked, lifting it up to inspect it curiously. "What is it, then? It's kind of big for a bracelet."

"It's not a bracelet, either. It's, it's a collar." Romano answered, flushing awkwardly. He was keenly aware of Feliciano and Germany watching with interest.

"Oh. Is it for Ludwig then?" America asked, holding it out for the German, who glanced sidelong at his own Italian.

"Uh." Was all Romano could say.

"How come Ludwig and Gilbert and Francis and the others have collars, but I don't?" America wondered innocently, cocking his head in confusion. Germany cleared his throat.

"Ve~, I think Ludwig and I will go inside for a while." Feliciano said, laying a hand on Germany's arm and smiling gently. "You two have some things to discuss."

"We do?" The American watched them go, puzzled, and turned to Romano, who flushed and hunched slightly, shoulders drawing up. "Did I say something wrong?"

"N-no," Romano answered slowly. He took a deep breath and shifted, squaring his shoulders. "A-alfredo, come here for a minute." He patted the cushion next to him, and America climbed over the back of the sofa to settle down facing him, legs crossed, still holding the collar. Romano took it from his hands, and focused on it, running his fingers over the leather as he spoke. "Alfredo," he started, "do you know what a collar is for?"

"Um," The American's ears twitched, and he tilted his head. "It's like a belt, for your neck. Like your ties."

Romano shook his head. "Not exactly, no. Y-you see," he shifted again, searching for the words to describe it, "a collar is...well, a collar is, uh...a sort of symbol." He glanced up to see if America was following. The blond was listening attentively, brows furrowed.

"Like the 'sex symbols' Franci-"

"_No_." Romano interrupted, flushing deeper. "Don't listen to anything that perverted bastard says. It's not like that. It's, um, it's..." He exhaled through his nose, rubbing his face in frustration. "_Dammit_."

"Romano?"

The Italian decided to try a different approach. "Alfredo." He began again, shifting on the couch to face him, reaching up to fondle a floppy golden ear. "Why did you follow me home? The first time."

America's eyes slid to the side and he blushed. "Well..." He began, hesitantly, "Um, well, I saw you, and," he paused, blushing harder, "you looked really... and, um..." his pointed ear twitched embarrassedly, "and then you talked to me and you were really nice and interesting and, and," he sat up and grinned, "And so I came home with you!" he finished, tail beating against the cushions.

"...Alright." Romano said after a moment, realizing that was the best he was going to get right now. "How long-" he stopped, biting his lip.

"Twenty-two inches." America said helpfully.

"W-what?" Romano blinked at him, thrown.

"My tail." America explained. "It's twenty-two inches. An inch-and-a-half longer than Ludwig's. Gilbert says his used to be way longer, but then part of it got bitten off when-"

"That's not- Why would I care how long your tail is?" Romano asked, brows furrowed, "And why were you measuring your tails, anyway? No, wait, that's not important." He shook his head.

"'Cause the collar doesn't go on my tail." America nodded.

"...Something like that. Look, bastard. A collar is...well, a collar is...it's like a committment. It _is_ a committment. It's, uh...sort of a promise. That, well...when, when someone puts a collar on you- and you accept it- they're taking responsibility for you. And, you for them. It's mutual. It's, like a promise. That you'll be together, and take care of each other. Um."

America tilted his head thoughtfully. "So kind of like we do?"

Roman flushed, toying with the collar in his hands. "Yes, sort of, but. Permanently. Like, as long as you live."

America nodded. "And you can't take it off?"

"You can," Romano said hesitantly, "but, even if you take the collar off, t-the... promise is still there. You ...b-belong to them. And they belong to you. It's...you...well, the collar is mostly to let anyone else know that you're taken. So people see that you belong to someone. That you're not...available."

"Okay." America said. "So, do you wear a collar too? Your brother doesn't."

"No." Romano shook his head. "You're right, Feliciano doesn't wear a collar. But you've seen the tags on the mutt's collar, haven't you? Feliciano's name is on the tags. That's how it works. So when people see the bastard, they can see that he's taken, and the tags let them know he's my idiot brother's. Understand?"

"Mm, I think so." America nodded. "So, you want to make that promise with me? Is that why you have the collar?"

"Uh, well, Feliciano got this collar." Romano confessed, twisting it in his hands. "I, uh,"

"You don't want to collar me, then?"

"No, I, I do. Maybe. I don't know." Romano shifted, rubbing his face.

America leaned against the back of the sofa, laying an arm across the top of it. "You're not sure?"

"I'm...well, I do. It's just..." He sighed, leaning back against the sofa as well, "it's a permanent thing, Alfredo. It's forever. And you're very young. If we did this- if I put a collar on you, and you accepted it- it would be forever, you know? Just you and me. Nobody else, ever, for either of us. And, well, I'm okay with that, but...would you be? What if you meet someone else? What if you don't want this in a few months, or years, or...whenever. We have our whole lives ahead of us, and you're so...young! What if, what if," He stopped as America leaned down to nuzzle him, wrapping his arms around Romano's shoulders, and burying his face in the Italian's neck.

"Don't talk like that." He said, soothingly. "Don't talk like I'm going to leave any minute. I'm here, and I'm staying here. As long as you'll have me. Yes, okay, I'm young. But that doesn't mean I'm stupid, or, or," his brows furrowed as he searched for words, "flighty. I know what I want, and when I make a decision I stick with it."

America pulled back, levelling Romano with a serious look, suddenly seeming more the adult he would soon become than the awkward adolescent he still was, or the child he so briefly had been. "We have our whole lives ahead of us, yes. But I followed you home because I knew I wanted you to be a part of mine."

Romano looked down at the collar he still held. "B-but, what if you find someone else you like better? I'm not-"

"There might be other people I like, but you'll always be the one I want. You're...you're _you_, Romano. You're a part of my life, and when I think of the future, I can't imagine it without you in it. I don't _want_ a life without you in it."

"But, are you _sure?_" Romano insisted, glancing up.

"Romano, look at me." America cupped the Italian's face, bringing his chin up. "I don't need a collar or anything else to tell me that we'll be together. Whether or not you put one on me, I'm going to stay with you. Always. I think what you have to ask yourself is; what do _you_ want?"

"You. You, bastard." Romano answered fervently, looking into America's eyes, searching. Then his shoulders relaxed, and his face cleared. "You mean that, don't you? You really do."

"Yep." said America, leaning down to nuzzle his cheek. "I really do."

"Alright." Nodding, Romano reached up to run a hand through blond hair. He exhaled, and smiled.

America tilted his head, and smiled back. "Collar?" he asked, ears perking.

"Mm. But not this one." Romano tossed it aside, and America watched it drop, surprised.

"Not that one?"

"Nope. I have one in mind for you, bastard."

"You do?"

"Yep. Go and wait in the living room." Romano directed, standing up and straightening the wrinkles from his slacks. "I'll meet you there."

"'Kay!" The blond answered cheerfully, climbing over the back of the couch and bounding into the house.

Going to his bedroom, Romano opened the top drawer of his dresser, pulling out an old, worn, metal box. He carried it downstairs, holding it carefully in both hands. As he entered the living room, three sets of eyes fell upon him; America's from where he stood next to the coffee table, and his brother's and Germany's from where they lounged on the couch. Once he saw the box, however, Feliciano sat bolt upright, eyes widening.

"That's- you're giving him Grandpa Rome's...?" He breathed, awed. Germany sat upright as well, ears flicking forward in fascination.

"It's mine to give." Romano answered defensively, holding the box close to his chest. "Do you have a problem with it, bastard?"

"No! No." Feliciano answered hastily, waving his hands. "I just thought you'd never give that to anyone. It's..." He glanced between his brother and America, and smiled, gently. "I think it's a good idea, brother."

Romano nodded, lowering the box again. Something inside him relaxed- if Feliciano _had_ had any objections, he wouldn't have gone through with it. Grandpa Rome's legacy might be his birthright as the eldest, but he would never use it in a way that his brother didn't support. Feliciano's approval meant more to him than he'd ever admit.

Placing the box on the tabletop, he knelt, lifting the lid, revealing an old, thick leather collar- worn soft with use, and scarred from battle, but clearly strong, sturdy, with an iron clasp to fasten it. Reverentially, Romano lifted it from the box in both hands. He frowned, making a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat, and his brother tilted his head, concerned.

"Romano? Is something wrong?"

"It's just..." Romano glanced up at his brother, and back down at the collar. "I forgot how heavy it was."

"Ve~." They examined the collar thoughtfully for a moment, and shared a look. "He _is_ very strong..."

"He is..." Agreed Romano, and they turned to regard America, who was watching silently. Romano glanced back at his brother, and shrugged. "If anyone can carry it, he can."

"Mm." His brother nodded, agreeing.

Taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, Romano faced America, stepping close and lifting the collar. "'Fredo. Do you accept this collar, and me, and everything that comes with it? Do you understand what it means? For both of us?"

"I do." America answered steadily, lifting his chin.

"You're sure?"

"Yes, Romano. I'm sure."

Romano nodded, eyes flickering. "I'm, I'm going to put it on you, now."

America lifted his chin slightly, watching him. Romano lifted the collar, hands trembling, and slowly slipped it around America's neck. Germany and Feliciano watched intently, leaning forward in their seats, holding their breath.

Before fastening the clasp, Romano paused- what if it was too much for Alfredo? What if it was too heavy? What if it would make him- like Rome? He glanced up at the blond, searching his face for any indication that something might be wrong.

For a moment, America looked back at him, steadily, and then to Romano's alarm he blinked rapidly, eyes unfocused. Romano's brows furrowed in concern, and he was just about to ask what was wrong when America's eyes crossed, and he sneezed violently. Then he sniffed, and grinned, tail waving.

"Sorry. Had some fur in my nose, or something."

"Cheh." Huffed Romano, fighting a laugh as relief bubbled up inside. "You could suck the drama out of anything, bastard." He complained fondly, fastening the clasp as his mouth curled up in a smile.

America's grin widened, and his tail waved faster. Romano smiled back, reaching up to cup his cheek, fondle his ear. "Now you're mine, bastard."

"Already was." America answered, nuzzling his cheek.

"Ve~, welcome to the family!" Feliciano exclaimed happily, coming over to hug them both, kissing both of their cheeks. "Congratulations! I'm so happy for you~. Both of you! "

"Congratulations." Germany said, leaning in to sniff America's new collar. "It smells interesting. How does it feel?"

"Soft." America answered, tilting his head this way and that as he explored the sensation of the collar around his neck. "The clasp is a little cold, but- ow!"

_Shit_. Thought Romano, alarmed. "W-what's wrong? Is it too heavy? Are you hurt?"

"No, it's just," America answered, face screwing up as he dug two fingers under his collar, searching, "there's something poking me...here, got it!" he announced, pulling a small, cream-colored cylinder out from under it. "Huh. Here." He handed it to Romano, who examined it.

"Why was there a cigarette under your Grandfather's collar?" Germany asked, his voice faintly disapproving.

"It's not a cigarette, it's a scroll, dumbass." Romano answered, frowning down at it.

"Ve~, has that always been there?" Feliciano asked, leaning over his brother's shoulder.

"I've never seen it before." Romano said, turning it over. "I don't see how I could have missed it."

"Well, open it, see what it says." His brother urged.

"It probably doesn't say anything, idiot. Most likely that bastard Rome just left it there and forgot about it." Romano said, unrolling the scroll. As it turned out, however, there was writing inside. Frowning, Romano read:

_Do you like the present Grandpa got you? Isn't he nice?_

_Grandpa's so happy his boys have such good _

_companions to take care of them. Doesn't my _

_collar look good on him? Don't be too surprised_

_if he outgrows it. With you by his side, he's sure_

_to grow into quite a man! _

_Don't say Grandpa never did anything for you!_

_P.S. Don't worry- it would have happened_

_eventually. Grandpa just...hurried things along_

_a little. My grandbabies are so cute when they_

_sleep! ~~_

"Well?" Prompted Feliciano. "What does it say?"

Romano looked up to see the others watching him expectantly. Blushing, he crumpled it up, growling, "Nothing, dammit. It doesn't say anything."

"Ve~, oh well." His brother sighed, shrugging, and looked around. "Let's go to the kitchen. I'll make something extra-special to celebrate!"

"Yay!" America cheered as the group exited the room. "Is it hamburgers?"

Feliciano wrinkled his nose. "No. I said something _special_."

"Like wurst." Explained Germany. Feliciano sighed.

"Ve~, sometimes I worry about you two."

"Romano? Are you coming?" America looked over his shoulder to where Romano trailed behind, staring at the crumpled note in his hands. Looking up, Romano nodded, slipping it into his pocket.

"Yeah, bastard. I'm coming."

"Good." America smiled, and came back to walk beside him, taking his hand. "We'll go together, then. Always."

"Sap." Romano snorted, lacing his fingers through the blond's.

"Mm." America agreed amiably, leaning down to nuzzle his temple. "But I'm _your_ sap. And you're mine."

"Always." Romano agreed in turn, stopping to face the other, reaching up to cup his face. "Forever's a long time, bastard." He murmured, stroking the blond's cheekbone with his thumb. "I hope you're ready for that."

America smiled softly, leaning down to press his forehead to Romano's, eyes shining. "We'll just have to take it a little bit at a time. But forever doesn't seem like such a scary prospect when I have you by my side. As long as we go through it together."

"Sap." Romano muttered, blushing deeply, leaning up, as their eyes started to close, and-

* * *

Romano woke up, sitting bolt upright in his bed with a gasp, blankets pooling around his waist. Whipping the helmet off his head he stared, wide-eyed and unseeing, blushing deeply, brows furrowed in confusion. "What the _fu-_

_

* * *

_

_AN: *cough* _

_Yes, that's how it ends. If you think the characters are...slightly out of character, remember- it's Romano's dream. Subconscious. Everything in there's intentional. _

_Except the spelling/grammatical errors. I edited it four times, and FFnet refused to save the changes I made. So I gave it one last once-over and left it. I'll try and fix it when I get back, but it might be a couple days. Please bear with me. Ah- I won't be able to reply to reviews until a bit late, since I'll probably be at a family function for most of the weekend. I'll try to get to it as soon as I get back!_

_

* * *

_

**Omake:**

Feliciano's eyes opened, and he blinked, slowly. He lifted his head to stare at the nation sleeping next to him. Aw, Germany had been so _cute_ with puppy ears. He grinned to himself, reaching across the blond to rifle through the drawer in the bedside table, pulling out several items. Finally finding what he'd been looking for, he prodded Germany awake. The German groaned, shaking his head to clear it, and lifted both hands to pat the top of his head carefully.

"Hn." He grunted. What a strange dream. Obviously he'd had too much wurst before bed.

"Ve~, Gerrrmannny~." Feliciano sang, leaning against his chest. "I had the most _wonderful_ dream." He grinned, displaying his find for Germany's inspection.

Germany looked at the studded collar dangling from the Italian's fingertips, and at the grin the other wore, and his own lips twitched up in response. Well, he was certainly awake now.

Might as well make the most of it.

* * *

_**Omake II:**_

America blinked drowsily, half asleep. He didn't entirely remember what he'd been dreaming, but he knew it had been a _good_ dream. Oh well. He turned over, pulling the covers up over his head, and as he drifted off his last coherent thought was: _Those cookies Romano made were really good. I wonder if I could get him to make s'more. Maybe...rocket-shaped. _


	30. Unexpected Proposition

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. **

_My internet has been down for a...while. Too long, too long! Snowstorms are not our friends. However, I was originally told it wouldn't be up again 'til next Monday, so it could be worse._

_Of course one of the first things to catch my notice once I was back online was Japan's current crisis- the tsunami/earthquakes/ let's face it, general disaster. I lived there for several years, and have friends there whom I have yet to hear back from as to their status, so I'm a rather anxious about it. I haven't been able to find a relief fund or anything similar set up to help Japan out at this point, so if anyone knows of one please do let me know. Otherwise, perhaps we'll have to set one up, yes? _

_That being said, please do enjoy the chapter! It's a long one. _

* * *

America tapped his pen on the folder in front of him, absently sipping his coffee as he finished up his reports for the day. Not much paperwork to do, actually, which was nice. He'd be able to get in an extra hour or so at the firing range before heading home.

He was looking forward to it even more than usual, since it would give him a chance to try out the new firearms Weapons Development had sent him to test out- rifles made entirely of polymer, meant to be extremely light in comparison to the steel and carbon models that were currently standard issue, but just as durable. He was eager to put them through their paces, and seeing if they were everything the development team had promised. _Especially_ since they had, at his request, made a compact double-action model which he was hoping would be perfect for Romano's brother.

In America's experience, nothing said 'don't mess with my brother' like staring down the muzzle of a 9.3 caliber double-barrel rifle. And the polymer and compact design should make it light enough for Romano's brother to handle easily, without losing any of the intimidation factor. If North Italy was going to be looking out for his big brother (and if Sunday had been any indication, he most certainly was), then America was going to be sure he did it right.

America frowned thoughtfully as it occurred to him- he'd better send along a few cases of blanks and polymer bullets for the half-nation to practice with, just in case Romano had been right about his little brother shooting himself in the foot. He'd include a note offering to teach North Italy how to handle it if necessary, too. He would have thought Germany would have already taken care of that, but no harm in extra lessons if it was something the diminutive Italian had difficulty with. Brother-protection was something of an art, after all.

Under normal circumstances when he'd recieved new firearms for testing he'd spend the entire day at the firing range (sometimes well into the night and following morning). Today, however, he had something more important to do. As soon as he was done at the firing range, it would be time for his daily call to Romano. He grinned, resting his chin in his hand and toying with his pen as he thought about their previous conversations. Since Sunday, he'd called Romano every day after work, and they'd talk about nothing in particular for at _least_ a couple of hours before bedtime (Romano had refused to wear the helmets to bed anymore, to America's disappointment. Something about unwanted side-effects).

Today though, Romano had informed him that he'd be busy until late- cooking with Feliciano, as it turned out. America was sorry he wouldn't be able to talk to Romano as long as usual, but happy that the brothers were spending time together like they both had wanted. He was looking forward to finding out how their brother-bonding time was going, and hearing about the stuff they'd cooked. It was sure to be delicious. He might not be able to taste it, but he liked hearing about it, just the same. Especially if he could get Romano to describe it to him, like he had in the restaurant. That had been _amazing_. His mouth watered at the memory.

Just as he was starting to drool, his phone buzzed, interrupting his thoughts. He slipped it out of his pocket, checking the ID and breaking into a beaming smile. Romano was calling _him!_ Up 'til now, America was always the one who initiated their phone conversations. This was _great!_ Quickly, he answered. "Romano!"

"Put your helmet on, bastard." Was all the Italian said before the line went dead. America reached under his desk, retrieving his helmet and slipping it on (he'd brought it everywhere with him since Sunday, Just In Case, and made sure Romano knew about it).

"Okay, got it on. You have good timing, I'm almost done with work. What's up? You and your brother done already?"

"America." Romano's voice came through the helmet speakers after a moment, sounding a little strained. "_America. _I have a question for you, bastard. Did...did you send me something? Something...big?" America could hear Feliciano's voice in the backround, a series of uncertain 'Ve's'.

"Oh, did it get there already? That's great! They said when I ordered it that it might not get there 'til late."

"...You did. Okay. I see. Another question. What is it?"

"You didn't open it? It's a coffeemaker!"

"...A coffeemaker."

"Yes, it's a coffeemaker. Since, you know, I brok-"

"_A coffeemaker._ You're _kidding_. You're telling me that this crate -which is the _size_ of a _car_- that is right now sitting on my lawn..._tearing up_ my lawn, dammit; holds a coffeemaker? You've got to be joking. Are you screwing with me, bastard?"

"No, really!" America insisted. "It's a coffeemaker! I wanted to get you a robot one, but Japan said it would be a few years at least before he can make one the way I wanted it, so I got the latest restaurant model for you for now, until the robot one is finished. Which reminds me, would you prefer the 'sexy maid' model, or the 'schoolgirl' model?"

"What? _No!_"

"You don't like either? Well, Japan said those would be the most popular, but he can also do an idol-type or a librarian or-"

"_No,_ dammit, I don't _want_-, auugh!" There was a thumping sound on the other side of the line, and America's brows furrowed. It sounded kind of like something was hitting the helmet. It was a good thing Romano was wearing it, or he might get hurt. Er, wait... "_Chigi!"_

"Romano? Are you okay?"

"_Listen,_ dumbass- I don't _want_ a robot coffeemaker, and I sure as hell don't want...this..._thing_, dammit, I can't- this won't even fit through my _door_, I- why would you think? Of course, you weren't thinking, were you, you damn _moron_, I can't _believe-"_

"You don't like it?"

_"America_, it _won't even fit through my door._ I don't have room in my _house_ for this...thing! It's _huge!_ Did you even check it out before you _bought _it, dammit?"

"Of course! It's got all the latest features. It can make sixty cups in eight minutes! Plus it makes cappuccino and espresso and lattes, and there's a section devoted to smoothies and-"

"Why would I need that? Why would _anyone_ need that? I'm not opening a _restaurant_, bastard, I can't use this thing! It, it won't _fit_!"

"Um, well...if it's too big, I can build an extension on your house and-"

"_No!_ I don't- I'm sending this back. You can keep it, dammit."

"What? No! I bought it for you, Romano! To replace the one I broke. What are you going to do for coffee if you don't have a coffeemaker?"  
"What am I going to do for coffee with _this_ monster? Look, America, I can't take this. I cannot accept this, bastard. I'm sending it back right now."

"But, Romano-"

"I can't take this, bastard."

"But-!"

"I _can't take this_."

"Why not?" America asked, bewildered.

"It's _too much_, America. In a lot of ways. It, it just...it's too much, okay?"

"But, I want you to have the _best_, Romano. And I promised I'd replace the one I broke, and-"

"I told you not to worry about it, bastard."

"But I _promised_." America insisted.

Romano sighed. "Look. I'm sending this thing back. But!" he added, cutting off America's oncoming protests, "but, you can still replace my coffeemaker, okay, idiot? Just...let me pick it out. I'll choose something that'll work for me, and you can pay for it, okay? That soothe your conscience, bastard?"

"Well, okay. As long as it's a good one. I want you to have the best."

"The best doesn't always mean the biggest and most expensive, moron." Romano muttered under his breath.

"I know that." America protested.

"Really? 'Cause it doesn't look that way from where I'm standing."

"I do! It's just, it was really cool! And I figured if you ever wanted cappuccinos or whatever, you wouldn't have to go out for one. And you can adjust the amount of coffee you make, so you can have one cup or sixty, and- "

"When am I ever going to need sixty cups of coffee, exactly? What am I going to do, take a bath in it or something?"

"Haha, that would be neat, but I see your point. You've gotta admit it's kinda cool, though."

"Yeah, it's cool, but that doesn't mean I've gotta have it, or that I can even _use_ the damn thing. I appreciate the thought, but _seriously_, bastard."

"Okay, okay." America laughed. "I'll call someone to come pick it up. Do you think Nino might want it?"

"I doubt it, but you could always ask."

"I'll do that. Are you and your brother having a good time together?"

"We were until some idiot dropped a coffeemaker the size of a house in our yard."

"Aww, haha. Sorry, sorry. Do you need your lawn fixed, too?"

"Th...that would be nice, yes."

"Okay. I'll get that taken care of, too. Do you have time to talk, or are you and your brother still doin' stuff?"

"I should get back, yeah. We left the fryer on in the kitchen."

"Fryer? You makin' French fries?"

"_Hell_ no, idiot!" Romano huffed, offended. "Cheh. _Cannoli siciliani_."

"Oh, is that like the Italian version of cannoli?"

"...It's...something like that, yes."

"Sweet! I'll let you get back to that, then. I'll call you later, 'kay? Have fun with your brother!"

* * *

Romano slipped off his helmet to find his brother staring at him. "What?" He challenged, feeling oddly defensive.

"Ve~." Feliciano tilted his head. "Who were you talking to? It sounded like you were talking to America, but you were wearing your helmet."

"I-it has a satellite connection. With his helmet." Romano explained, flushing, as he turned to re-enter the house. "He, uh, has a satellite. I guess."

Feliciano beamed excitedly, following him inside. "You can talk to each other through your helmets? He didn't mention anything about that. That's so cool!"

"Why would he tell you, idiot? It's _my_ helmet."

"Ve~, he told me a lot of stuff about it! But that's so cool! I want a helmet to talk to Germany!" The younger Italian threw his arms around his brothers shoulders, hanging off of him. "Romano~, make him make me a helmet, too! One with my name on it, like yours! That I can talk to Germany with! Make America make one for me, too, brother~! Like yours!"

"What? No! Ask him yourself, dammit!" Romano blustered, pushing his brother off. Feliciano pouted.

"I did, but he said no. But he'll do it if you ask him, Romano! Ask him for me, please! Please~! I want to talk to Germany, too!" He pleaded, teary-eyed.

"Why would I want to help you talk to the potato-bastard, idiot?" Romano frowned, and paused. "Wait, he said no? Why?" He would have thought America would be eager to spread his crazy souped-up toys with anyone who showed the slightest interest.

"'Cause he's not interested in _me_, Romano! But if you ask him, he'll do it! _Pleeeaase_!" He flung himself at Romano again, but the elder Italian stepped out of his range, swatting him across the head. Feliciano pouted, rubbing the spot. "Ooowwie~!"

"S-shut up, idiot!" Romano barked, blushing furiously. "Don't say stuff like that! And I'm not going to ask America to make you a helmet just so you can talk to that bastard Germany, dammit. You two talk more than enough as it is."

"But not through _helmets_, Romano! That way we could talk all the time! Even when Germany's on his motorcycle, or when he's at work, or when he's training, or, or, anywhere!"

"Use the phone like everyone else, dammit." Romano answered, shaking his head as he checked the temperature of the oil in the fryer.

"I _do_, but Germany says the bill is too high, and he won't answer the phone while he's driving 'cause he says it's dangerous," His brother explained, taking the cannoli dough out of the fridge and setting it on the counter, "but if we had helmets, I could talk to Germany _anywhere! _All the time, ve~! Pass me the roller?"

"Then ask _Germany_ to make you one, moron." Romano scoffed, handing his brother the roller and reaching for the cannoli forms they would use to shape the dough into tubes before frying. "I'm sure as hell not asking America."

"But Romano," Feliciano said as pinched off a bit of the chilled dough, popping it in his mouth, "if it's hooked up to America's satellite, then we can _all_ talk together! You and me and Germany and America! We can have a four-way!" He wrinkled his nose thoughtfully. "Do you think we should have used red wine instead of white?" He asked, pinching off another peice of dough and holding it out for his brother to taste. Arms full, Romano opened his mouth, allowing his brother to place the dough on his tongue. Chewing carefully, he placed the forms on the table and shook his head.

"No, it's fine. The red would be too much." He answered, swallowing, and frowned, returning to the previous conversation. "And why the hell would I want that? I don't want to have anything to do with your stupid boyfriend. Talking to him in person is bad enough. Crap!" He looked down at himself, and at his brother. "Where did we leave the aprons? Are they outside?"

"I'll get them~." Feliciano offered, setting the roller aside. "I think we left them on the stair rail outside."

"Then bring them in before they get dirty or I get butter all over myself, idiot!" The elder responded, deftly folding the circles of dough his brother had already rolled out around the tube-shaped forms, preparing them for frying.

"Ve~, okay!" His brother called back from the hallway.

A few moments later Feliciano returned, holding the aprons and looking back over his shoulder with a worried frown. "Brother, the crate is gone. And there's some men working on our lawn, ve~."

"Already?" Romano answered, eyebrows climbing. He nodded approvingly. "The bastard works fast."

"Ve~, America did that? You _just_ finished talking to him!" His brother marveled, slipping his apron on and tying it.

"I know." Romano said smugly, taking his apron from his brother and donning it as well. Feliciano smiled. It was good to see his brother in good spirits.

"So was that really a coffeemaker?" He asked curiously, returning to his task rolling out cannoli dough.

"You heard that?" His brother asked absently, dropping the prepped dough in the fryer. Feliciano nodded (of course he had heard it- he was pretty sure the whole _neighborhood_ had heard Romano yelling), and Romano huffed. "You know what that idiot did? He sent a huge coffeemaker. A _restaurant_ model. And you know why?" He asked, as his brother shook his head. "_Because he couldn't get a robot one_." He shook his head disbelievingly, mouth quirking in amusement.

"Ve~, a robot coffeemaker?" Feliciano queried, taken aback. He tilted his head uncertainly. "Well... I bet Japan could do it. He makes a lot of things like that..."

Romano glanced back over his shoulder. "_I_ don't want a robot coffeemaker. Would _you_ want a robot coffeemaker, idiot?"

"Not really." His brother agreed. "It's...kind of interesting, I guess, but..." He wrinkled his nose in distaste.

"_Exactly_." Romano set the finished shells on a rack to cool, and dropped some more in the fryer to cook. "America doesn't know the difference between 'enough' and 'too much'."

"Well, he's young." His brother said with a shrug. "He might grow out of it."

"Cheh." The elder scoffed. There was no guarantee of that, not if Spain was any indication. Some people just never grew up.

"But I think America's just trying to get your attention." Feliciano continued, rolling out the last of the dough and taking the bowl and roller to the sink to be washed. "He wants to impress you, Romano."

"Th-that's stupid!" Romano argued, sticking the fingers he'd just burned in his mouth. "Thaff th'thtupideth thing aihve evrr hrd, ihdhith."

"Ve~, what?" His brother asked confusedly, not being fluent in 'Fingermouth'.

Pulling his fingers from his mouth and wiping them on his apron, Romano growled, "You heard me! There's no _way_ that's true! He just likes flashy, expensive things is all. And besides, we already talk all the time- he calls me every night, dammit. So why would he _possibly_ think he has to do something to get my attention? He's stupid, but he's not _that_ stupid, idiot. Saying stupid things like that. You're lucky this fryer is too dangerous for you to use, or I'd make you do everything yourself as punishment." He turned back to the fryer with a huff, grumbling to himself under his breath.

"He calls you every night?" Feliciano repeated from where he was preparing the rest of the dough to be fried. "Really?"

"...He does." Romano confessed with a blush, mumbling slightly.

His brother's brows furrowed. "And you talk to him?"

"Of _course_ I talk to him, idiot. H-he went through all the effort to call, after all. It would be rude not to." Romano answered defensively, setting aside more pastry shells to cool.

"Ve~." His brother blinked a few times, trying to wrap his mind around the thought. "What do you talk about?"

"...Nothing." Answered Romano, dropping more dough into the fryer.

Feliciano pouted. "Come on, can tell me, I won't tell anyone, promise!"

"No, really, we don't talk about anything." Romano explained, flushing deeper, staring at the pastries bubbling in the fryer, rapidly turning a crisp golden brown. "W-we spend hours on the phone every night talking about nothing, really. W-whatever comes up. It, it was his idea." He shifted, adding quietly, "It's...actually...kind of nice. Maybe."

"Ve... That sounds really nice." Feliciano was silent for a few moments, staring down at the last of the dough as he wrapped it around the cylinder he held. "I'm kind of jealous."

"W-what?" His brother turned around, surprised. Feliciano was jealous? Of _him_?

"Germany _never_ wants to talk on the phone about nothing with me." Feliciano confessed, fiddling with the circle of dough. "He thinks it's a waste of time. He always says it's 'ridiculous' or an irresponsible use of our phones, or that it's too expensive." He pouted, setting the uncooked pastry down with a sigh.

Romano frowned. "I thought you said he was getting better."

"He is!" Feliciano amended quickly, waving both hands. "He really is! He's trying very hard, ve~." He smiled, handing his brother a plate of shells to fry. "Yesterday, at our first session, big brother France made him say 'I love you, Italy' one hundred times in a row, and he really did it! And he's learning how to hug and kiss me spontaneously!" He beamed at the memory, clasping his hands together. "It's so wonderful! I'm really happy, really! But I think there are some things he will never be able to do." He shrugged. "And talking on the phones really does cost a lot of money, he'd be too worried about the bill to talk unless it was important. So, I'm a little jealous of you, Romano~. Happy for you, but jealous, too, ve~."

"Idiot." Romano sighed, turning back to his work. "So, is that why you wanted the helmet, moron?"

"Mm, that's part of it. I think Germany would be willing to talk to me longer if it was free," Feliciano nodded, and grinned. "but also, it's really cute! It has little tomatoes and our flag and everything! I want one like that~."

Romano rolled his eyes. "You're such an idiot, idiot. These on the rack are cool enough, get the filling out of the 'fridge and we can get started, and by the time we're done these other shells will be cool enough to wrap for later." He dropped the last of the pastry shells into the oil, and bit his lip, debating something as his brother obediently retrieved the bowl of filling from the 'fridge. "Hey, idiot."

"Hm?" His brother responded, scooping the filling into a pastry bag.

"If...if you can get a couple of helmets from the potato-bastard, I'll...when America calls tonight, I'll talk to him about linking them up." He muttered, blushing, as he pulled the shells off the forms so they could be filled.

"Really? Thank you!" His brother squealed, dropping the pastry bag and flinging himself at Romano, nearly toppling them both. "Thank you, Romano! I will, I will! I'll do it, thank you!"

"C-careful, idiot!" The elder Italian flailed, trying to keep them both upright. "Get off me, dammit!"

"Vehe~." His brother giggled sheepishly, letting him go. "Sorry~, Romano. I'm just so happy!"

"I'm not promising anything, though." Romano warned, smoothing his apron and gathering up the scattered pastry shells. "If America says no, that's it, okay? You'll have to find some other way. Understand?"

"Mm, okay~!" Feliciano agreed, beaming. "I understand!" He was pretty sure there was no way America would say no. Not if _Romano_ was the one asking.

"Alright. Now go clean up that mess you made, dammit. The filling is getting all over the floor." Romano ordered, scowling. "We're not going to have enough to fill the damn cannoli, idiot."

"Oh no!" Feliciano hurried to pick up the bag, which was, indeed, oozing ricotta filling onto the floor. While Romano was exaggerating about not having enough (there was an extra bowl in the 'fridge), it was still a _terrible_ waste of good food.

Once he'd cleaned up the mess and gotten everything straightened out, he turned to Romano, who was readying the last of the shells and turning off the fryer, and smiled. "_So_. You've been talking to him _every night_? For _hours?_ And tonight he's calling, too?"

Romano glanced sidelong at him, warily, and answered, "...Yes."

"_So_." Feliciano's smile turned mischievious. "Have you ever heard of phone se-" A cannoli shell to the face cut him off.

"_W-what! No!_ _S-shut up!"_ Romano sputtered furiously, flushing so deeply he practically glowed red. "And neither have you, dammit! _Chigi!_"

* * *

"The sniper's pulling to the left." America observed, sighting through the scope with a dissatisfied frown. "And I don't think the automatic is going to hold up under sustained rapid-firing." He set the sniper rifle down on the table next to several assorted rifles, and picked up the semi-automatic. "The semi should be fine, but I'll be honest with you guys- I don't like that the scopes can't be changed out." He turned to the research team from Weapons Development which stood watching, mouth thinned into a rueful line. "I mean, I know that you made them more adjustable, and that's neat and all, but I'm really not getting the same range as I would with different scopes."

"Hmm." One of the men watching said thoughtfully, staring at the target. He made some notes on the clipboard he was holding, turning back to America to ask, "What makes you think the automatic isn't going to hold up?"

"I'll show you." America answered, taking the firearm in question from the table and firing off round after round.

"Shouldn't he be using a mount?" One of the younger members of the research team wondered. The others glanced at each other and grinned. _Newbies_.

"He doesn't need one." The first man said dismissively, waving the question aside.

"But even if that's polymer, it's still a heavy gun. It's borderline heavy artillery. That ammo cartridge _alone_ is almost 70 pounds." The younger man insisted, brows furrowed. "And that's sustained fire- won't he get tired?"

"Watch and learn, newbie." One of the others answered, nudging him into silence.

"But-"

"Okay." Announced America, having emptied the magazine of ammo. "That was about 280 rounds per minute, right?" The men watching nodded. "Now watch this." America instructed, and reached up to grasp the barrel between two fingertips, snapping it like a dry twig.

"_Holy shit_." The young man breathed, but the first man just nodded.

"Alright, I see what you mean. It's getting brittle due to the heat. We'll have to work on that." He sighed, taking the broken barrel from America's hand and shaking his head.

"_He shouldn't have been able to do that!"_ The youngest member hissed to the others in a frantic whisper.

"Anything else you noticed?"

"The others held up alright. The polymer _is_ a lot lighter, and they're easy to disassemble and clean, so that's good. If you can fix the accuracy of the sniper, I really liked the way it handles."

"_How did he do that? That's insane! Who the fuck is this guy?"_

"Alright, good. Would it be better if we made the scopes more adjustable? Increased the sight range?"

_"_It's worth a shot I guess." America shrugged. "But I'd still prefer a removable scope. For one thing, if something damages the scope and it's fused to the rifle, you won't be able to replace it. You'll be S.O.L. in the field."

"The Director's not going to be happy to hear that." The other replied wryly, as someone kindly led the hyperventilating newbie to a chair in the background. "The fused scopes are so much cheaper to manufacture."

"Haha, I'll bet." America grinned sympathetically. "Still, it's not worth it if it's not useable. These are alright, but we can do better." He shook hands with the man, and started getting his stuff together. "Well, thanks guys, it was fun, but I gotta get going."

"You're leaving already?" It was the first man who spoke, but the entire team (sans the newbie, who was recuperating in the corner) turned to him in surprise.

"You feelin' alright, Al?" One of the others piped up in concern.

"You usually stay all night when we have new weapons to test. Is something wrong?" Another team member asked, with equal concern.

"Was it the guns? Are they really that bad?"

"Was it the newbie? We can send him away if you'd like?"

"Are you hungry? Do you want some chocolate?"

"We can send out for lunch!"

"Was it something I said?" The first man inquired, brows furrowing.

"Haha, no, you guys were great." America laughed, shaking his head. "And the rifles were okay. Not bad for a first test run. Definitely not the worst I've had." He picked up the compact double-action rifle he'd specially requested, and hefted it. "In fact, this one is ideal for what I need, so thank you." The men visibily relaxed. "I just have plans, that's all."

"Got a hot date?" One of the men teased, and one of the other guys hit him on the arm.  
"Not _our_ Al. He's married to his work." He joked.

"And fine weaponry." Another added.

"Well, not a date exactly, but still, plans." America confessed, blushing lightly, slinging his bag over his shoulder and rocking up on his toes with a silly grin. "I kinda met someone special."

"No way! You did? Congratulations! That's awesome! You dog, you." The men enthused, gathering around him to pat his back or punch his shoulder or ruffle his hair in a show of comraderie. "Way to go, Al!"

"Tell us who it is! Can we meet 'em? When did you meet? _How_ did you meet? I bet it was at the Gun Show last month. Was it at the Gun Show?" They chattered over each other excitedly, eager for news.

"Haha, thanks guys. I don't have time now, but I'll tell you about it later, okay? I gotta run!" He grinned and waved, heading out the door.

"Sure thing Al, best of luck! Go get 'em, buddy!" They waved him off, and turned to gather up the assorted firearms laid out on the table.

"Never thought I'd see the day." One of them mused, shaking his head. The others made varying sounds of agreement as they worked.

"Who _was_ that guy?" The youngest member asked as he came up to help, having recovered from his moment of mild hysteria.

"_That_ was Alfred F. Jones." One of the others informed him proudly, and patted his shoulder comfortingly. "Don't worry kid, you'll get used to it."

"Alright." The young man nodded, and squared his shoulders. If the other researchers weren't bothered by it, then he wasn't either, dammit. Besides, he added to himself, in retrospect, it had been kind of..._awesome_. He blinked, looking over his shoulder at the door Mister Jones had exited through. "Did he say he had a _date_?"

"Something like that." The first man agreed, looking over the notes on his clipboard.

"It's about damn time, if you ask me." Piped up another, to general agreement.

"Does...um. So..." The young man hesitated, not sure if he should voice the question on his mind. Still, they were all scientists here. "So, uh...what happens if he has _kids_?"

The other men paused, their heads turning in unison to look at each other, and then door America had exited as they pondered the implications. "Uhh..."

* * *

America, unaware of the Deep Thoughts unwillingly being Thought in the room he'd recently left, hummed happily as he strapped his duffel to the back of his 'bike. Somewhere between the third rifle and the fourth target obliterated he'd had a _great_ idea. Now if only he could get Romano to agree with it! He checked his watch, mounting the 'cycle and starting it up. Five more minutes and he could call Romano! He could hardly wait.

Stopping for a red light a few minutes later, he checked his watch again. Romano wouldn't mind if he was 30 seconds early, right? He glanced up at the red light, and both ways on the road. Well...he'd promised Mattie he wouldn't use the cell phone while driving his 'bike, but there was no traffic and the light was red... he shifted in the saddle, debating. He really wanted to talk to Romano...but he'd promised...but Romano...but he'd _promised_...but, _Romano_!

Wait- Mattie had said 'unless it's an emergency', right? _Surely_ calling Romano counted, right? After all, talking to him was _really _important. So- oh, the light changed. Well, maybe the next light, then.

Six green lights later, America was both almost home and severely agitated. He'd never been so disappointed to hit so many green lights in his life. Why weren't there any stop signs on this route? Or road construction, or a closed road, or _something_. It was almost fifteen minutes past the time he was supposed to call! He never should have made that stupid promise. Stupid Mattie and his stupid sense of responsibility. Stupid little brothers guilting him into making stupid promises that deprived him of his Romano time! _So_ not fair. He had half a mind to call Mattie up and chew him out. But that would mean even _less_ time talking to Romano, so it would have to wait 'til another time.

His phone buzzed as he pulled into the driveway, and immediately cut the engine and whipped it out, checking the ID. _Damn it_, Canada! Hanging up on his brother with vindictive satisfaction, he quickly dialed South Italy's number, and wheeled his 'bike up the drive as it rang. After six rings (and he was starting to get anxious), Romano _finally_ picked up.

"You're _late_, bastard."

"I know, I'm sorry! I hit all green lights and Mattie made me promise and I _wanted_ to call but there was no-"

"So you're okay then?"

"Yeah, I'm okay."

"You drove a car?"

"Nope, rode my 'bike. Why?"

"...Y-you weren't wearing your helmet." Romano muttered, so quietly America could barely hear him. America slapped his forehead.

"_Fuck! _I forgot!" He spun around, digging through his duffle. "I left it in my bag. _Dammit_, I could have been talking to you fifteen minutes ago! Wait- you checked the helmet?"

"W-well, you usually call right when you say you will. I, uh...not that I _care_, or anything, but I figured if you'd gotten into an accident or something then- well, it's not like I _wanted_ to talk to you or anything, okay?"

"Gotcha." America beamed into the phone, slinging the bag over his shoulder. "I missed you too. Hey," He continued, ignoring Romano's spluttering protests, "I have a question- what name do you want me to use with other people? When I tell them about you? I mean, I go by 'Al' or 'Alfred' or 'Jones' or whatever, but I wasn't sure what you would prefer."

"I didn't- what? Y-you talk to people about me?"

"Of course! All the time!"

On the other side of the world, Romano blushed, fingers shifting nervously on the phone. "W-what do you tell them?"

"Um, well, it depends on who it is. Like, I just told the research team that you're special, but I told my personal assistant pretty much _everything_. Usually though I tell people about Saturday, and about your cooking, and about how smart you are, and about how much I like your voice, and some of the stuff we've talked about the last couple days, and about sleeping in the helmets with you on Sunday, and about the way your eyes-" America heard a click, and he blinked, brows furrowing. "Romano? Romano?" Nope, the line was dead. Huh, they must have been disconnected somehow. Dropping his duffel next to the coat rack, he made his way into the kitchen to grab a soda while he redialed.

Romano's eyes slid to the side to regard the ringing phone warily from his place underneath the pillow covering his head. Every _inch_ of his body _burned_ with the force of his blush. He wasn't sure he was ready to answer that phone yet. Or, or, face the world in general. He tried to focus on breathing deeply, in an effort to calm his racing heart and trembling hands. He'd just, just let the phone ring to voicemail for now. He'd answer it later. When he could trust himself to talk.

America's brows furrowed when he got Romano's voicemail. Hm. Maybe Romano's service was having connection issues? He waited patiently for the beep. "Hey Romano, sorry about that. We got cut off. I called you right back, but I got your voicemail- well, I guess that's obvious, 'cause I'm talking on it now, but anyway, I'll try again in a few minutes, 'kay? Talk to you soon~! " Hanging up, he grabbed a bag of chips and a package of donuts from the cupboard and headed for the living room to get comfortable while he waited to try again. As he settled down on the couch and cracked open his soda, his cell buzzed. Checking it hopefully, he huffed when the ID showed that it was, yet again, Canada. Damn it, Mattie, stop calling! Didn't he know he was trying to talk to _Romano_? Jeez! _Brothers_. Irritated, he hung up on his brother again (that's for interrupting my time with Romano _twice_, you uptight jerkwad), and set the phone down on the table, staring at it anxiously. Had it been long enough between calls? Romano's service should be back up by now, right? It'd been _forever_. Or, he amended upon checking his watch, about a three-and-a-half minutes, but _still_. Close enough.

Romano reached out from under his pillow, picking his ringing phone up off the table where he'd left it. He inhaled deeply, exhaling slowly through his nose, and opened his eyes, answering the phone after the third ring.

"Roma-!"

"Helmet, bastard." Was all he said, before hanging up. He sat up and reached for his helmet, sliding it on. He felt like hiding his face for a while, but maybe, just maybe, he wanted to talk to America, too, so the helmet would serve a dual purpose for a while.

Thankfully it was also pretty comfortable.

"Romano?" America's voice came through the speakers, and he fought the rising blush as the blood rushed to his face in response. "You there?"

He took another deep breath. "Yeah, I'm here."

"Okay, good." America said, relieved. "Everything okay?"

He cleared his throat. "Y-yeah, everything's fine."

"Good." America answered. "I was getting a little concerned, 'cause I couldn't get through the phone for a while there. I thought maybe your service went out."

"Ah. Sorry." Yeah, sure. The intensity of his embarrassment had shorted out the lines.

"It's okay, I'm just glad I get to talk to you still. Good thing I hooked up these helmets." He answered, smiling. "So, name?"

"Uh, what?"

"You know, what name should I use when I'm telling people about you? Or introducing you, 'cause a lot of them want to meet you, when-"

"Vargas."

"That's your name?"

"Yes."

"That's what I thought, but I wanted to be sure. Vargas is your last name, right? 'Cause Japan's last name is first, which is confusing."

"Vargas is the surname, yes."

"Cool. I like it, it sounds kinda tough. _Vargas_. Like a gunslinger. What's your first name, then?"

"L-Lovino."

"Lovino. That's what I thought. Lovino Vargas. Lo_vino._" America repeated experimentally, trying it out. Absently, he took a pen from the side table. "Lo~vi~no. _Lovino_. Can I call you Lovi?" He asked, digging around in the drawer for a pad of paper. Dropping it on the coffeetable, he wrote out '_Lovino Vargas_'_._ Hm. How would it look in cursive?

"_No_." Romano ground out, pressing his helmet-covered face into the pillow sitting across his raised knees. When was this blush going to fade so he could _think_ straight? America saying his name like that wasn't helping, dammit.

"Aw. How 'bout 'Vino? Vin! Haha, Vinny." It looked pretty good, actually. He wrote it out several times, followed by _Lovino Vargas_._ L.V._. Haha, even his initials could be pronounced 'Luh-vee'. _Lovi, Lovino, Lovi Vargas. _

"Call me Vargas, dammit."

"By your last name? It's cool, but it's kind of impersonal, isn't it? I call everyone else I know by their first name." _Vino_, _Vinny, Vin, Vin Vargas. _Hah. He liked 'Lovino', though. It sounded more...complete. _LoViNo. _The paper was starting to get a bit crowded. He flipped to a fresh page. _Lovino._

"Yeah, well, in Italy we go by last names."

"But Nino and Amata called you Lovino." America pointed out, and circled it several times on the paper.

"I've known them a long time."

"But, 'Nino and Amata' isn't their last name, right? They let me call them by their first names." Haha, 'Nino and Amata' would be a cool name, though. Kind of like a duo of...what? Awesomeness? Hm. _Alfred and Lovino. Lovino and Alfred. Al and Lovi. _

"Maybe so, but that's not normal here. They just let you call them by their first names 'cause you were with me, and they like you, for some wierd reason."

_Jones and Vargas. _Sounded like cops. Haha, watch out bad guys, Jones and Vargas are on the prowl! He grinned. Coffee, donuts, long nights on stakeout talking about nothing in particular, and fighting crime. Awesome. "I like them too! Nino's got a great sense of humour." He responded, lifting his helmet clear of his mouth for a second, sipping his soda. _Lovino Jones. _Hm...that...wasn't bad, but it was missing something. An edge. "Amata doesn't send as many emails, but hers are a lot longer. Which reminds me, in his last email Nino said he had something for us whenever one or the other of us drops by next." _Lovi Jones._ Eh, sounded kind of soft. Girly. He crossed it out.

Romano blinked, surprised. "You've been emailing Nino and Amata?"

"Yep! Did you know Amata has a cousin in New York? I guess they're thinking of visiting sometime next summer." _Alfred Vargas._ "I offered to fly them if they let me know when they want to come over." That didn't look quite right, either. Too...sharp.

"You're going to buy their tickets?"

"Haha, no! I'm a pilot, silly. I have a couple 'planes, it'd be easy to hop on over and pick them up." _Vargas-Jones_. There, that worked. _Alfred Vargas-Jones. Lovino Vargas-Jones._ He nodded, satisfied.

"How do you afford all this shit, bastard? _I_ can't afford that, and I'm in the G-8. How can you? Did you rob a bank, or something?"

"No way! Heroes don't rob banks, duh." America laughed. _Alfred and Lovino Vargas-Jones_. He carefully underlined it, and put the pen down, relaxing back onto the couch. "I have a pretty solid investment portfolio, for one thing. I got in on the ground floor in some- well, I do alright. My 'job' pays okay, and I do some freelance consulting on the side, which actually pays more than my regular job. I just do it for fun, though. And if I'm bored I do some modelling or acting, which is always interesting. That...doesn't actually pay much, so I guess it doesn't count. It's mostly for kicks." He snagged a couple donuts, and leaned back on the couch, resting his feet on the coffee table. "To be honest though, I don't pay much for most of my stuff. I built a lot of it- like my motorcycle, and over half my planes, some cars n'stuff. I built that satellite we're linked through. Had some help launching it, of course." He swallowed one of the donuts, and continued, "Then I get given stuff sometimes for helping out with development and testing, like firearms or vehicles. And since I built this house, and my own hangar and storage facilities, I don't have to pay rent or mortgage on those. Planes are pretty expensive to keep, sure, but all I really have to pay for is fuel and insurance and licensing, so I lease out most of my newer aircraft, like to the local airfield for charter flights and stuff, and that pretty much covers costs. Ffo baffically," He finished, mouth full of donut, "mah pwivaht ffunth ahw thelf-thuthtaining."

"...So what you're telling me is that you're filthy rich."

"Hahah, I do alright." America answered flippantly, considering the chips. These would be hard to eat with the helmet on. Maybe he should stick to donuts. "If you want to improve your personal finances I could help you out. Stick with me and you'll be set for life. I'll take care of _everything_. I can get you just about _anything_ you want. Cars, planes, ships, whatever. Just say the word."

"Are you trying to _buy_ me, bastard?" Romano frowned, a little affronted. Now that he thought about it, the idiot _had_ been spending an awful lot of money on him. Paying for dinner, the suit, that ridiculously overdone coffeemaker...come to think of it, this helmet _had_ to have been expensive, too. The presents, the attention, all seemingly came out of nowhere. One day America barely knew he existed, and the next, bam! What if it was all part of some strange new invasion tactic? When the others had wanted South Italy, they just came in and took over, but maybe America did things differently. America didn't _seem_ like the type with all his 'freedom' and 'liberty' and stuff, but then again, Rome had been a republic once, too. Maybe he was just being paranoid, and it was hard to believe that of the blond, even in theory, but it would explain why the other nation was suddenly paying all this attention to him. "If you think that-"

"Nooo, I didn't mean it like that!" America protested, sitting up, junk food forgotten. _Crap_. "I would never do that, Romano! I'm not... _like_ that." He bit his lip. "I'm sorry, I didn't think about what I was saying. I'm not trying to buy you, or bribe you or anything like that. Or, or impress you with my money, or whatever. I wouldn't _want_ that, either. It's just... I really really like you. And I want you to like me too. But, I, I want you to like me for _me_, Romano." He confessed earnestly. "The way I like you. Otherwise it's just...it wouldn't be right. Y'know what I mean?"

He did. Relaxing a bit, Romano squeezed his pillow tightly. He'd known America wasn't like that, the idiot was way too innocent, but old instincts died hard. And it wouldn't have been the first time he'd been taken unawares. Besides, "But, you barely even _know_ me, bastard."

"But I'm learning more every day, and I really like what I've seen so far." America answered, and shifted in his seat, fingers drumming the cushions a little nervously. He wasn't sure why he was nervous, exactly, but he really wanted Romano to say yes to his idea, and this seemed like a good opportunity to bring it up. "And, that's something I wanted to talk to you about, actually. Getting to know you better, that is. And you getting to know me. Better. Both of us, that is. Mutual, er, getting to know. Knowing." Dropping his face in his hand, he groaned inwardly. _Smooth_, America. 'Mutual getting to know?' What the hell was that supposed to mean? Obviously the ability to speak coherently was deserting him. _So _not cool.

"...What exactly are you talking about, here?" Romano asked warily, his brother's intimations flashing through his head. Stupid Feliciano and his stupid... _ideas_. Where had he learned that stuff, anyway? His brother had obviously spent way too much time with that perverted bastard France. It was all that damn Germany's fault.

"Well," America said anxiously, "what are you doing this weekend? Are you free? Or, you know, tomorrow night."

"I'm not sure." Romano answered cautiously, squeezing the life out of his pillow. "That depends. Why?"

"Well, I was thinking." America started with surpressed excitement, scooting forward 'til he was on the edge of his seat. "You know how the G-8 meeting's coming up soon? Next week?"

Oh, it was a _meeting_ thing? He let the pillow breathe a little. "Next Wednesday, yeah. I'm not going, though."

"What? No way! You _have_ to go, Romano! It won't be any fun without you." America protested.

"It's work, bastard. It's not supposed to be fun."

"_I'll_ be there, though. Come on Romano, please?"

"No _way_, bastard. I'm not going to travel thousands of miles to sit in a room full of uptight, stuffy bastards and be bored out of my mind just because _you're_ there."

"Aww, but- I was thinking if you had this weekend free you could come and stay with me and we could go to the meeting together." He muttered, disappointed.

"'Stay with you'." America wanted him to _stay_ with him. _Overnight_.

"Yeah, you know, at my place. With me."

"Until Wednesday." For almost a _week_. Staying. With America. _In_ America.

"Well, the meeting runs Wednesday and Thursday, so I figured we go and then we'd have Friday after the meeting and the weekend to spend together, but yeah."

_Over_ a week. America wanted him to stay for _over a week_. "D-don't you have work next week? Wait, no, that doesn't matter, 'cause I'm not going to the meeting."

"But why _not_? Sure, the world meetings are boring, but the G-8's not too bad." America coaxed.

"Maybe not for _you_, bastard. Everyone there is practically related to you in some way, or your buddy or whatever. It's not like that for me. There's no-one there I even remotely want to see."

"Sure there is! Me! And Mattie will be there -it's his turn to host- and you can meet him. You'll like him, he's awesome. And you can see England's hissy fit, it's going to be great. He's had a _week_ to stew. And Japan's there, you know him, he's really nice. He's a friend of your brother's, right? And France said he has something he wanted to tell you. And your brother's going to be there too, right? So you can spend some time together. And it's not like we ever do much work at the G-8, anyway. It's really just so we can touch bases and strengthen ties, so, it'd be good for you to come. Especially since, well, your brother's nice, but he tends to wander off and get distracted. He usually spends the whole meeting playing in the corner or under the table or something."

"He does? I thought the potato-bastard was looking out for him." Romano frowned, irritated. What the hell was Germany thinking, letting Feliciano run off like that during a meeting? The G-8 might be more informal, but it was still important to their countries. What was the point of letting the stupid potato-bastard look after his brother at the meetings if he just let Feliciano do whatever he wanted? Germany was supposed to be keeping his brother in-line and on-task, dammit. Obviously the dumbass was falling down on the job. How fucking typical.

"Well, he tries, but it's not easy to do. It might work better if you were there to help, though. Your brother listens to you."

"Well..." Romano hesitated, debating.

"C'mon Romano, please? It'd make your brother really happy. And I really want you to come. Please?"

"Well, alright. But only because somebody has to show that idiot how to behave. And I'm only going for the first day, dammit. I'm not going to waste any more time there than I have to."

"Yay! So, should I pick you up tomorrow night, or do you want to-"

"Hold on there bastard, I didn't say I was going to be staying with you. I was agreeing to the _meeting_, not...anything else."

"You don't want to come over?" America asked, crestfallen. "But, I thought..."

"Yeah, well, you thought wrong."

"But, it'd be a lot of fun, Romano! You and me. There's so much we could do! And I only work a half-day next Monday, since they usually let me have the week of a meeting off, and you can come along if you want, and see where I work- otherwise there's lots to do at my place while you wait. We could pretty much spend all the rest of the week together, just you and me. And I have lots of extra rooms, so you can pick where you want to sleep. It'd be like a vacation! Please?"

"...I'd have my own room?"

"Of course! Unless you don't want to, that's cool too. I don't mind sharing. And we have to spend time together to get to know each other, right? We can do whatever you want. So will you come?"

"I'd...have to check my schedule. S-see if I'm available. Can I call you back in twenty minutes?"

"Sure! I can catch a quick shower and grab something to eat while you do that." America agreed. "And if tomorrow or Saturday's no good, then, you could come over whenever you're free. I just want to spend time with you, Romano. Even if it's just one day."

"O-okay. I, I'll call you back in twenty, then."

"Okay! I'll talk to you soon, Romano!"

Romano slipped his helmet off, placing it carefully on the cushion next to him, and pulled the pillow over it for good measure. The he got up, and ran across the room to take the home phone from it's cradle. He dialed quickly, listening anxiously as it rang. "C'mon, c'mon, pick up idiot, pick up, _answer_, dammi-"

"Hi Romano~!" His brother's cheerful voice finally came over the line. "Did I forge-"

"Americaaskedmetostaywithhim." Romano interrupted in a rush.

"Ve~, what?"

"America. Asked me to stay over. With him. At his place. For a week. More than a week. With him." Romano hyperventilated into the phone. "_Feliciano_. _America_ _wants me to stay with him_. What should I do?"

"...Say yes?"

"You think I should?" Romano asked anxiously.

"Why not? You don't want to?"

"I don't know. Maybe?" Romano fisted his hair nervously. "You don't think it's too soon?"

"Too soon for what, ve? You like him, right? And he likes you. So why not?"

"But, we hardly know each other." Romano fidgeted, starting to pace."We've only been talking for a couple days, even."

"But you like it, right? And this would be a good opportunity to get to know him better, don't you think?"

"M-maybe, but, I haven't- it's been a long time since- I only really spend time with you and Spain." He paced frantically, flailing his free arm."What if I do something _wrong_? What if, what if, what if he decides he doesn't like me? And America's a big place. What if I get stuck there? Or, or, what if he wants to...t-to..."

"_Brother~_." Feliciano halted his brother's rant. He hadn't seen his brother worked up like this in...well, _ever _as far as he could remember. It was kind of sweet, really, to see him go to peices over _America_, but his brother needed to calm down. "Ve~, Romano, _calm down, _okay? It's going to be okay. Why don't you have some wine, ve~?"

Romano took a deep breath. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right. I need a drink." He took another deep breath, and made his way to the kitchen for the wine they'd had earlier with the cannoli. "Okay. It's okay. I'm okay." He grabbed the bottle, and filched a glass from the cupboard. "I told him I'd call him back in twenty minutes with my answer. Feliciano, what am I going to _do_?"

"Ve~, well, if you're this worried about it, maybe you shouldn't go?"

"You think so?" Romano asked, filling the glass.

"I don't know. If you don't want to, then you shouldn't go, Romano."

"I didn't say I didn't _want_ to. Maybe." Glass full, Romano put down the bottle, and picked up the glass. "And he really wants me to come."

"Well, if you want to go, you should go, then."

"I don't know." Gnawing his lip, he considered the glass in his hand, put it down, and picked up the bottle. "You don't think it's too soon?" Tipping it back, he gulped the wine desperately.

"Too soon for _what_? Romano, what do you think is going to happen? What did America say, exactly?"

"Well," Romano gasped, lowering the (considerably lighter) bottle and licking his lips, "he said he wants us to get to know each other better, and to spend time with me, and that we can do anything I want. He wants me to come over tomorrow night," He took another pull from the bottle before continuing, "and stay all week, and go to the G-8 meeting together, and stay until Sunday. _Next _Sunday. With him."

"You're coming to the meeting? Romano, that's wonderful! I'm so excited! It's going to be so much fun!"

"Yeah, that's what _he_ said." Romano mused drily, gesturing with the bottle. "Don't get too exited, idiot. I'm coming to the _first day_ of the meeting, that's all. And only because I heard you've been running wild, dammit. And that's not the point, here. _Focus_, dammit." The wine was working, he was feeling a little calmer already. He tipped back another few swallows. The calmer the better, right?

"Ve~, you're right, sorry, sorry. I'm just happy you're coming." Feliciano beamed, and returned to the topic at hand. "Okay. Well, 'get to know each other better' could mean a lot of things. Without hearing how he said it I wouldn't be able to say how he meant it. But, America seems like a nice person. I don't think he'd try to make you do anything that you didn't want to, ve~. He really likes you." Besides, he was pretty sure America still hadn't figured out his feelings yet. And even if he _had, _after last weekend he doubted the blond would know what to do with them in any case. Romano would have to take the initiative if anything was going to happen. He sighed inwardly. What was it about him and his brother that made them fall for big blond idiots? Romano was right, Grandpa Rome must have dropped them on their heads.

"Th-that's true. And he did say I'd have my own room." Crap, the bottle was almost empty. Well, the glass was still full.

"He _did_? Then what are you _worried_ about?" Feliciano asked, exasperated and mildly disappointed. _He'd_ been sharing a bed with Germany _long_ before they got together. His brother had to man up, or they'd _never_ get anywhere.

"He said we could share if I wanted." Romano defended, clutching the now empty bottle.

"He _did?_" Feliciano asked again, hopes rising once more. That was more like it! Maybe his brother_ could_ get through America's thick skull! America would make a _great_ brother-in-law. And Germany's brother Prussia was dating America's brother Canada, so they could all be one big family! They could have big family dinners, and _everything!_

"Yeah." In the other room, Romano's cell phone beeped, indicating that he'd gotten a message. He frowned, brows furrowing. Who would be messaging him? Had...had something happened with America? Maybe America'd changed his mind? What if he got tired of waiting, and didn't want him to come over anymore? Or fell in the shower, and got hurt? "Hang on, Feli- I got a message on my cell."

"'Kay~." He smiled. Must be from America. Romano _never_ bothered to check his messages right away, normally.

Romano stared down at the cell phone in his hand, bemused. "He sent me a picture."

"America did? Of what?"

"Of himself, duh. Don't ask stupid questions, idiot."

"Is he naked?"

"W-what? _No!_ What did I _just_ say?"

"Well, you never know, ve~." Feliciano defended mildly, smiling. "Does it say anything?"

"Uh, yeah. It says, uh," He swallowed, embarrassed. "'M-missing you.'"

"Awww, that's so sweet!" Feliciano melted on the other side of the line. "Come on, Romano~. You can't tell me you don't want to spend time getting to know someone who says things like that."

"Well..." Romano pensively traced a finger over the picture of America, obviously fresh from the shower, t-shirt clinging to him slightly, hair damp and tousled, cheeks flushed and Texas sliding down his nose, smiling ridiculously around a donut he held in his mouth, and flashing a 'victory' sign at the camera he held at arm's length. What a _dork_. He couldn't help but smile at it, his worries melting away at the sight of that face. "He's such an idiot." He said fondly, putting the bottle down.

"So you're going?" Feliciano asked hopefully.

"Yeah." Romano answered, touching the picture he held, a smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah, I think I will."

* * *

_AN: Guys, guys! I have fanarts! And a fanvid! How awesome is that? It's seriously awesome. In order of arrival, __**Capricia**__ sent an adorable puppy!America, __**morriganfearn**__ sketched up Romano in America's bomber, and __**S.I.N Fan Girl **__made an AMV for the pair! I posted the links in my profile, so check 'em out! I'm so honoured and excited, guys!_

_And I see there's new Romerica stories out there- it's like Christmas, without the creepy old man coming down the chimney! Or even having to be good!_

_Okay, story-related notes: Will Romano go, or chicken out? Time will tell!_

_To be honest, I would __**not**__ share Feliciano's advice to Romano at this point if I were in his shoes. I mean hey, sure, America seems nice, but neither of them know him well. He could be a chainsaw-wielding psycho in disguise, for all they know (sure, you and I know he's not, but still!). _


	31. Start Spreading the News

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

_I got tired of rewriting it, so here you go! Don't worry, Romano and America will show up again in the next chapter. __A note of warning- I was/am suffering through massive writer's block, so I can't promise much as far as the quality of this chapter. I'm trying to force myself through it. Blocks can't last forever, right? _

**_Edit:_**_ FFnet keeps cutting chunks out everytime I submit this or try to save it. I'm not sure if it's due to the current glitch, or something about the document itself. Please have patience while I try to fix things._

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"Germany, Germany, guess what?" Germany looked up from the card game his brother had conned him into as Feliciano burst into the room, practically vibrating with excitement. "Big brother is coming to the meeting!"

"The G-8?" Germany asked, brows furrowing. He sighed inwardly. He'd have to add shinguards to his list of things to pack. "That's unusual. Oh, Italy, I found an envelope in your pocket when I was doing laundry. I left it on the counter over there."

"Mm~! And that's not all!" Feliciano answered, trotting across to the counter and picking up the envelope. "Ahh~, I forgot about this! It's from the restaurant."

"Ah?" Germany frowned thoughtfully at the cards he held, drawing one out and tossing it into the 'discard' pile in the middle of the table. "Your turn, brother."

"Yeah, yeah, I know, I know." Prussia ruffled his hair irritatedly, shifting in his seat and pursing his lips at his own cards. Shit, West was kicking his ass! "How come you're so good at this? It's so not fair, West! I thought you said you'd never played before! Did you lie? Were you lying?"

"Don't be foolish. You know this is my first time playing this game. You just need to focus. You're too easily distracted, Prussia." He glanced over at North Italy, who was struggling with the envelope. "Is he coming over here, or are we picking him up?"

"No, no!" Feliciano clapped his hands excitedly, accidentally dropping the envelope. "America's going to bring him!"

"America? That's a long way out of his way." Germany observed, turning back to the game. "Are you going to draw a card?" He asked Prussia, who was fidgeting in his seat and rearranging his cards. "You have to draw to start your turn."

"Of course I am! Just give me a minute, West, _man._" Damn, he needed a distraction. "Wait, did you say America's picking up your older brother? Why would he do that?"

"Ve~, that's the best part!" Feliciano beamed, searching the counter for a letter opener, having recovered the envelope. "Listen, listen! America asked brother to stay with him! Romano's going to America! Starting tomorrow! Isn't that _great?_"

"Your brother's going to stay with America?" Germany repeated, brows raised. "Really?"

"Mmhm, mhm! For an entire week! Isn't it wonderful?" Hm, maybe he could use a butter knife?

"America asked him to stay? Already?" Germany frowned. South Italy might not like him very well, but he still felt marginally responsible for him. To an extent. "Isn't it a little...soon?"

"Wait wait wait," Prussia interrupted, having been glancing back and forth between the two interestedly. "I'm missing something here. Why is South Italy going to stay with America?"

"Ve~, you didn't know? Romano and America are going out!"

"What?" Prussia dropped his cards in shock. "Since when?"

"Since last Saturday!" Feliciano answered happily, struggling ineffectually to cut the thick paper of the envelope with a butter knife. "Germany and I had dinner with them! It was so much fun~! They're so cute together!"

"A _week? _And_ you_ knew, West? Why didn't you tell me? Why haven't I heard anything about this?" Prussia flailed wildly, _totally accidentally_ scattering the rest of the cards on the table as he pointed accusingly at Germany. "I just talked to Spain an hour ago, and he didn't say anything about this! France, either! And Canada! Canada, I've seen him 3 times this week! We talk on the phone all the time! America's his brother! Why didn't he _say_ anything? Shit! Am I out of the loop? Is everyone forgetting about my awesome self? Have I been forgotten?"

"I did tell you, brother." Germany sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We listened to the recording of his conversation with England, remember?"

"Ahahaha, right! I remember. That was great! But you just said you had dinner! I assumed it was, like, a diplomatic thing. How was I supposed to know it was a date?"

"Calm down. You're making a mess. Now we'll have to start over-"

"Oh!" Feliciano squealed excitedly, interrupting him. "Look, Germany, look! Pictures! Of dinner~! From the restaurant!" He waved a handful of snapshots in the air. "Lots of them! Of all of us!"

"Bring them here, let's see!" Prussia urged, brushing the rest of the cards off the table to clear space in his eagerness to see (and distract his brother from thoughts of restarting the game).

Feliciano emptied the envelope onto the table, and spread the pictures carefully across the surface. All three leaned over the table to look.

"They're surprisingly well-done." Germany commented.

"Ve~, yes. Whoever took them has a good sense for light and color. They really captured the mood! I think we'll be framing a few of these~."

"Hahahaha _West!_ You're all red in this one!" Prussia cackled, seizing on a picture of his brother and Italy.

Blushing faintly Germany reached to take it, but Prussia evaded his grasp. "Kesesese~, this is priceless! I can't wait to show this to- AH!" His eyes fell on another picture and he pounced, jostling the table, "No way! Is this _America?_ Holy shit! That _ass!_ You said he looked good, bro, but-"

_"Brother."_ Germany interrupted firmly. "I don't-"

"Doesn't he look nice?" Feliciano enthused, looking at the picture Prussia held. "Brother dressed him! He looked really good!"

"No shit." Prussia agreed, sliding the picture into his pocket. "Well, I know what I'm going to do with _this _baby. Kesesese~!"

"_Prussia!_" Germany scolded, scandalized. "You're dating his _brother_!"

"Uh-huh, and did you know, West," Prussia smirked, waggling his eyebrows. "they're _twins_."

"Ah, r-really?" Germany paused. Catching himself, he shook his head to clear it. "Ah, no, no! That's not important. It isn't right. Put it back."

"No can do, _mein bruuuuder_." Prussia sang, looking through the pictures still on the table. "Ooh, this is a good one!"

"Ve~, Prussia~," Feliciano smiled sweetly, taking yet another picture from the East German's hands, "these are the only copies we have, yet. I'm going to need all of the pictures so I can make copies for everyone~. Why don't you choose the ones you like, and I'll be sure to make extra copies for you~. Okay~?"

"Ahaha." Prussia laughed sheepishly, handing back the pictures he'd taken and rubbing the back of his head. "Okay. Since it's you asking, Italy. Ah! I should call Canada! It's not fair he didn't tell me about this." Grumbling, he pulled his cell from his pocket and started dialling.

"Mm, ask him if he wants any copies, too~." Feliciano said absently, as he sorted the pictures on the table into those of him and Germany, his brother and America, himself and America, Germany and America, his brother and Germany, and the group as a whole. They really were very good, he mused.

"HEY BABY!" Prussia greeted when his boyfriend answered. "Why didn't you tell me your brother was doing the elder Italy? It's not fair to- WHAT? No I haven't been drinking! What? YES THEY ARE! He totally is, babe. NO, I haven't been smok- NO, I'm totally SOBER! I'm at my brother's! _Serious_, mein little hotcake. Honest to _GOD. _Uhhuh. Uhhuh! _Yes._ NO IT'S NOT A JOKE. They're no-where near- WHAT? I don't know why he wouldn't have told you. Maybe he's too busy GETTING IT ON. I know _I_- Ahahahaha, really? England did? Well, maybe you should check your messages. I'm _telling_ you babe, I'm looking at the pictures right now. THEY TOTALLY ARE! _Solid proof_. Let me tell you, babe, your brother is lookin' _FINE. _I can see why South Italy would want to bone- WELL YES I KNOW YOU'RE TWINS. HAHA! Uhuh? Uhuh. Mhm_mmm. _Kesesesese~, I _knew_ I loved you for a reason. Mhm. Okay~! I'll talk to you later, babe. Love you too~! Kisses!" Grinning maniacally, he hung up, pocketing his phone with a happy sigh. "_God_ I love that man. Something to be said for dating France's little boy~, AHAHAHA."

"America didn't tell him?" Germany asked from where he knelt on the floor, picking up the scattered cards.

"Mm, nope! He's going to call around and see what's up. I guess England and France have been callin', but he figured they were making shit up. As usual." Prussia answered, stretching and folding his hands behind his head."Ahhh~! I could go for some beer. Want some, West? Italy?"

"I think America's been too busy talking to Romano~, Germany. Brother says America calls him every day the second he gets off work, and they talk until he falls asleep. It's very sweet!"

"HAHAHA what a _pussy_. Figures America would be the type to talk about his feelings and shit. What a girly bastard. I figured all those guns were just compensating for something." Prussia cackled, handing his brother a beer. "OH! I should go call _Spanien_! If Canada doesn't know, maybe he doesn't either." He pulled out his phone, dialling his friend's number, sniggering in anticipation. "Kesesesese~, I wonder what he'll say when he finds out his precious little lackey's vital regions are under American invasion. He's gonna go _conquistador_ on that fine, American ass. AHAHA!"

Feliciano looked up from his sorting with a puzzled look. "Why would Spain be angry? I would think he would be happy. Wouldn't he be happy?"

Prussia paused in his dialling to give him an incredulous look. "Are you _kidding_? Spain's had a grudge against America for _centuries._ Why do you think Spain jumps on him everytime he sees him?"

"Ve~, but," Feliciano bit his lip, worried, "I thought they got along okay now?"

"It's true that their country's relations have improved," Germany interjected from where he leaned against the counter, drinking his beer, "but Spain and America themselves don't always get along. Although I will admit that the ill-feeling seems to be exclusive to Spain. America doesn't seem to care either way. He certainly never reciprocates, despite his irritation."

"That's 'cause Spain's just messin' around." Prussia waved dismissively, and gestured with his phone. "But this is different. He'd go to _wars_ for South Italy."

"That would be foolish. On many levels." Germany frowned, gesturing with his bottle. "Surely he could see the benefits associated with an improved relationship with America? And America is quite powerful. Spain couldn't hope to win in a conflict between the two."

"Since when has that stopped Spain?" Prussia asked with a gleeful grin, resuming his dialling. "Kesesesese~, I can't _wait_-."

"NO!" Feliciano launched himself across the intervening space to hang off Prussia's arm, pulling the cell from the East German's ear. "No, no, no please, you can't, not yet! Don't tell Spain yet, Prussia! Don't tell please, please Prussia please don't tell Spain please, please, please, pleeeaassseplease_please_veveve~ _pleaaaaassse."_ He babbled wildly, teary-eyed.

"Holy CRAP, Italy! CALM DOWN, alright?" Prussia yelped, staggering under the Italian's weight. "What's wrong with telling Spain? It'll be fun, yeah?"

"Ve, not if he gets upset, Prussia! I don't want him to be upset. They can't fight, Prussia, they can't! Please don't tell!"

"Ahahaha, c'mon, Italy," Prussia shifted uncomfortably, grin wavering in the face of Italy's tears, "he's going to find out eventually, y'know? And a little fighting won't hurt anyone!"

"Yes it will, yes it will! Romano really likes America! He really, really does! But brother loves Spain, too! And if Spain and America are fighting, it'll make him really sad!" Feliciano sobbed, tugging on Prussia's wrist, "And America, too! America really likes brother! So if Spain stops Romano from seeing him, America will be very sad! And I'll be sad if brother is sad, so Canada will be sad if America is sad! So you _can't_, Prussia, please!"

"C-canada?" Prussia paused uncertainly, "Y-you really think he'll be upset?"

"Mhm, I do." Feliciano hiccupped, wiping his eyes, "And if you do it, I'll tell! I'll tell Canada it was you, ve~. And, and, if you make brother sad, I'll never talk to you again! I won't! Never, ever!"

Prussia paled, eyes widening. "You don't mean that, Italy." He chuckled nervously.

"I do! I'll _never_ talk to Prussia if he's mean to brother!" The small Italian insisted weepily, "And Canada won't, either! So you can't, or we'll never talk to you _ever! _Ever, ever, everever-"

"AuuuuHHHGHG! SHIT! _FINE_, I won't tell!" Ruffling his pale hair in frustration, Prussia caved. "I won't tell, okay? Not yet. But ONLY for you and Romano and Canada's sake, damn it. I couldn't care LESS about America. But I expect a you to make me a lot of treats for this, okay? As compensation, because I'm so _awesomely_ nice."

"Ve, I will! Thank you!" Feliciano flung his arms around Prussia, pushing up on his toes to press tear-stained kisses to his cheeks. "Thank you, Prussia! I'll make you lots and lots of good things, I promise~! Oh!" He remembered, stepping back from the blushing East German and clasping his hands with a beaming smile, "Brother and I made cannoli today! So I'll get some ready for you right now, okay~? Wait here!"

As he bustled off, Prussia sighed, dropping his face in his hands. "Ahhh~, I'm such a sucker. When did I become such a _pussy_? I'm getting SOFT in my old age!"

Germany put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Face it, brother- we can't win against Italy. But," He added, as Feliciano trotted back in with a platter full of pastries and a big smile, "there are compensations."

* * *

While the German siblings enjoyed the fruits of his and his brother's labours, Feliciano busied himself gathering the pictures and putting them aside to copy later. As he did so, he thought carefully- was what Prussia said about Spain true? Would Spain really be angry? He would have thought Spain would be happy about his brother's relationship, but maybe his feelings about America would get in the way? But surely if Spain saw that America made Romano happy...Feliciano bit his lip. He wasn't sure what to do. Oh, wait! He knew! He'd talk to big brother France! France always had the best advice. Plus, he was good friends with Spain, too! _And_ he was close to America, as well. So if there _was_ a problem, France would know what to do! France knew _everything_.

Excusing himself from the room, he ran up to the bedroom he shared with Germany, and flung himself across the bed, dialling France quickly.

France raised his eyebrows as his phone rang yet _again_ that day. My, wasn't he popular? Ah, perhaps dear _l'Espagne_ was _finally_ returning his calls. He had so much news to share! (Well, okay, most of it was conjecture, but since when did he let that stop him?)

Finally he picked up the phone. "'Allo, you have reached the marvelous and beautiful me~. How can I make your dreams come true?"

"Big brother France! Does Spain hate America?"

"Italy?" France paused, taken aback by the question. Recovering quickly, he settled back onto the couch to answer. "Well, I wouldn't say _hate_, precisely. Spain has a...minor grudge, perhaps. A slight latent aggression, as it were. Why do you ask?"

"Ve~, well, you see..." Italy explain the situation, detailing his concerns regarding the information he'd received from Prussia, and its possible effects on his brother; and, upon France's request, filling the other in on everything that he knew about Romano's interactions with America thus far, from Saturday's dinner and Sunday's varied incidents, to their daily phone conversations; ending with America's request for Romano to spend the week with him. He had to pause repeatedly so France could stop laughing long enough- ("A _puppy_! _Le choit Amerique! _I cannot _wait_ to tell _Angleterre_!") for him to continue.

France was _delighted_. For once, the rumours he'd been spreading were true! Ahhh~, his little boy was growing up. And what he lacked in taste in food, he more than made up for in his taste in lovers! France swelled with pride. And according to Italy, there were _pictures, _even! He couldn't _wait_ to see them. Once he'd extracted a promise from Italy to bring the pictures to the upcoming meeting so they could be shared with everyone, he moved on to matters at hand.

Prussia wasn't wrong. However, he explained over Italy's dismayed 've's', he was not entirely correct, either. _l'Espagne_ was not a particularly vindictive soul. While it was true that he held a certain amount of resentment towards America for...past events, it didn't immediately follow that he would object to a relationship between his darling South Italy and America. It all depended on how it was presented to him. If Spain was led to believe that Romano was being taken advantage of or in danger, as Prussia intended to imply, then he would, quite naturally, rush to his rescue. However, if Spain were to see that America made Romano happy, that the elder Italy was well-cared for, then he would likely support them wholeheartedly, all ill-feeling forgotten.

"Ve~, so, it'll be okay?"

"There is no reason why it should not be, as long as we ensure that he's made aware of the situation in the correct way. We must show him that Romano is happy; and therefore remove any concerns that he might otherwise have."

"Will you help, big brother France? You'll help make sure Spain understands, ve~? I really want brother to be happy, France. So please, will you help?"

"_Absolument~, _my dear Italy. How could I not, when it is for love, _non_? For _romance~_! Leave it all to your big brother France, I will ensure that _everything_ goes smoothly, without question. Spain will be _putty_ in my hands, no need to fear. Do not worry!"

Bidding a fond farewell after soaking up North Italy's effusive thanks, France tapped his lips with his phone, a satisfied smile curling his lips. Ohoho, _now_. He would stay true to his word, yes, and make sure Spain understood the situation..._eventually_. But there was no harm in having a little fun first, _non_? After all, what was life without a little...excitement?

* * *

As a shrill ring cut through the air, Spain sighed, reaching into his pocket to turn off his phone. Couldn't he get a _moment's_ peace today? He just wasn't in the mood for yet another wierd call. That English bastard had been calling _all week_ since Saturday, to rant drunkenly at him about... something Romano had done, possibly, he couldn't make it out for sure. Not that that was anything new- pissing people off was one of Romano's special talents, and if that person was England this time 'round, then he was all for it. Even if it did mean England kept calling him to leave incoherent complaints on his phone (or, more recently, strange chants and curses— _Santa purísima, _but that Englishman could be _creepy as hell._ Spain had stopped picking up the phone after the third call, or he'd _never_ be able to get through siesta without nightmares).

For now, he wanted to enjoy this lovely, warm evening. The stars were coming out, the breeze was sweet and warm, the camellias were blooming, and the sound of children playing in the park across the way was lulling him into a deep, contented relaxation.

The camellias really were quite lovely tonight. So fragrant! He wished Belgium and Romano were here to enjoy it, too.

Ah, come to think of it, he really should call Romano. His adorable lackey had left him a message earlier this week- was it Sunday? Tuesday?- and he kept forgetting to return his call. Well, no time like the present- it would cheer him up after a long week of English harassment.

Locating his cell after some searching (oh right, pocket!), he scrolled through the various numbers he had listed for Romano. One of these was his house number, he was pretty sure...that one was...um, was that Romano's _new_ cell, or his _old_ cell? Uh...no, no, this one was _North _Italy's -ah, Italy! _so adorable_! So sweet! He spent a few moments rhapsodizing inwardly over North Italy's charms before returning to the task at hand. Aha, this one was probably it. Maybe? Well, if it wasn't he could always redial. After all- OHMYGOD was that tiny little girl carrying a BUNNY? How _cute!_ _Adorable!_ Those _curls_! Ohmygod those little RIBBONS! In her HAIR! Those chubby cheeks! Sooo, sooo cute! And that bunny! With its floppy ears and wiggly nose, and, and -he gasped in delight- was she making the bunny a _flower crown? _That was the _cutestthinghe'deverseeeen!_ SO CUTE!

As his brain shorted out from an overdose of adorable, and without any friends around to prevent him from earning himself a restraining order, Spain leapt up from the table, dropping his phone in his excitement, and ran across the street to see more closely, all thoughts of calling Romano forgotten.

(For the moment, anyway.)

* * *

_AN:_ _Will Spain get out of jail in time to rescue his huffy little henchman? Will Prussia keep his promise to Feliciano? Will France have a little too much fun? Will England ever stop being fun to harass (hahahahano, sorry Iggy, you adorable bastard)?_

_Oddly, FFNet wouldn't accept any actual Spanish curses/exclamations for some reason, so I made one up. Hope it doesn't bother those of you who actually understand the language too terribly much. My apologies. I would have preferred not to use the language at all rather than muck it up, but since France and Prussia got to use theirs, it seemed uncouth to leave Spain out. _

_Things I love about Hetalia canon: Germany gets porn for Christmas. Prussia has a soft spot a mile wide for Italy (to the point where he sneaks into Feli's room through the window while Feli's sleeping...to...watch him sleep...and... pet... him...which, if you're a fangirl is cute I guess?, but as someone to whom this has **actually happened** on multiple occasions I have to say I find it massively creepy, but that's Prussia for you). __Prussia likes Canada. Seriously, the man spent about a nice chunk of his solo section on the 'Counting Sheep' drama CD talking about how **amazing** Canada's syrup and pancakes are when Canada makes them. It's cute._

_On an unrelated note, please excuse my shameless fanboying for a moment: Did you see Himaruya's latest Romano and America sketches? Romano's knees! So adorable! South Italy in shorts will always make me happy. And the Italy birthday sketch! *adjusts tie, blushes* So cute... (__Romano was even dressed pretty much as I imagined for his dinner with America!) _

_And Flyboy!America makes me especially happy, since pilot!America is going to be showing up soon in this fic, as well as frequently in its sequel. _

_*cough* Okay, I've gotten that out of my system for now. I think it's fairly obvious that I've gone far too long without sleep, so- until next time! _


	32. Imagine Me and You

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

_Warnings: This is very rough- since everytime I've had a chapter ready to post lately something's gone wrong (either with FFnet or my computer/isp), I decided not to take any chances. I really ought to sit on it for a couple days and tighten things up, but you get it hot off the presses, raw and uncensored. _

_Especially since the new job has me so wiped after every shift I pretty much pass out at the computer. Good news- writer's block is over and I'm swimming in ideas! Bad news- too bloody tired to write. New chapter of 'Thaw should be up soonish, barring incident, though. And maybe another one-shot or two, unless I pass out under my desk._

* * *

In the end, whether because he was slightly tipsy, or America being so..._America_, Romano _did_ agree. To the whole thing.

After he'd gotten off the phone with America (and the wine had worn off), he'd stayed up all night, tossing and turning, nervousness and fear and excitement warring for top billing. He must have picked up the phone a hundred times to call and cancel, but was stopped each time by the picture America had sent (that he _completely accidentally_ set as his wallpaper in his slightly-intoxicated state, and just...hadn't gotten around to fixing yet), and the memory of how...ecstatic the blond had been when he'd said yes. The..._idiot_ had dropped the phone in his excitement, and Romano could hear him whoop and cheer in the background like his birthday and Christmas were coming all at once, and Romano's presence was exactly the present he'd been hoping for.

It was, as far as he could remember, the first time any nation had ever been _that_ happy at the prospect of his company. (Which didn't make his heart and stomach do this funny little fluttering thing at _all_. Or make him feel kind of special and wanted and, well, it just _didn't_.)

Feliciano had arrived shortly after dawn to fix a quick breakfast and drag him out for hours and _hours_ of 'emergency shopping' (which Romano felt was unnecessary but Feliciano insisted was _absolutely vital_, and he'd been in no condition to protest). The morning had been a blur of being dragged dazedly from store to store by an almost frighteningly gleeful little brother, dressed, redressed, and dressed some more, barely-conscious and feeling vaguely like a doll. When he'd looked down to find himself wearing a little pleated skirt and kitten heels that he had no recollection of having put on, he'd decided enough was enough.

Once he'd located a pair of trousers, put Feliciano into a headlock until he swore on _pasta_ he'd never dress him up like a girl again, and punished him by confiscating his gelato (for all of two minutes, until Feliciano's crying made him give it back), Romano declared the shopping trip over, and they returned home to pack.

And now here he was, his hands shaking, heart pounding as they stood in the foyer, waiting for America's arrival and doing a last-minute check on his luggage and outfit.

"Are you ready, Romano~?" Feliciano asked, reaching up to fiddle with his brother's collar, straightening it unnecessarily.

"Y-yeah." Romano's voice shook, and he glanced nervously at the door.

"I wish we'd had more time to shop." Feliciano sighed regretfully, brushing imaginary lint off of his brother's shoulder. "But still, we found some nice things. Are you _sure_ you don't want to borrow-"

"I'm sure." Romano answered quickly, fiddling with his watch band, dipping into his pockets to make sure he hadn't forgotten his wallet, checking to see if he'd remembered to zip, anything to have something to do with his hands.

"I packed lots of pasta for you." Feliciano went up on his tiptoes to smooth down his brother's already impeccably-groomed hair. "I don't think they have any in America. It's in those two suitcases. Your casual clothes are in the big one over there, and the semi-casual ones are in that bag, and the semi-formal ones are in that suitcase, and the formal and evening wear is in the suitcase on top of it. All your accessories and shoes are in the big case, and I packed your camera in your carry-on, get lots of pictures, okay? I marked the contents on the tags, so it'll be easy to find."

"Okay." Romano nodded, not really listening as his brother chattered on. He worried his lip as he glanced at the door again. America should be here any minute.

... He still had time to hide, right?

His brother tugged insistently on his wrist. "Ve~, Romano." He started, so seriously that Romano turned to face him, attention caught for the moment. "I asked around for advice about America, to see if I could find out anything that would be useful."

"Luckily, Japan's a good friend of America's, so he had lots of helpful information. He says that America loves cute things, and he likes to eat lots of sweets, like ice cream and chocolate and things like that. And cute, sporty outfits, like track suits and swimsuits and short skirts." (Japan had actually said America liked _girls_ in those things, but Feliciano didn't see the harm in leaving that part out. After all, wearing girls' clothing had always worked out well for _him_.) "Are you _sure_ you don't want to borrow-"

"Feliciano, I am _not_ _going to wear a skirt_. Stop asking, dammit." Now that it was apparent that his brother didn't have anything important to say, Romano's attention strayed back to the door, only half-listening to his brother's continuing 'advice'.

"If you're sure, ve~." He sighed doubtfully. Oh well. If Romano changed his mind later, he could always pick up some skirts in America. "Japan also said America is very eager to learn new things. And he also said that you should watch ghost stories or visit a haunted house or something with America, for 'good results.'"

"America likes ghosts?" Romano asked, momentarily distracted from his door-watching. He'd never mentioned that during their talks. Kind of an odd hobby, but whatever.

With a funny little smile and a shrug, Feliciano continued, "Now remember, Americans are very straightforward, okay~?. They tend to ask any question that comes into their heads. They don't mean to be rude or prying; it's just that Americans are very curious, ve~. Kind of like children, really. There's no point in being subtle, it goes right over their heads. So, just relax and be yourself, okay? And you should be fine, Romano~."

"I, I know that already." Romano muttered, taking a deep breath to steady his nerves. Heh, as if _Feliciano_ would know subtlety if it hit him with a brick. Hell, he'd spent centuries with _Spain_, for that matter- a nation whose brain used what little power it had trying to keep the idiot walking and _breathing_ at the same time, with nothing left over to expend on anything so frivolous as _thought_. And he'd been talking to America for a _week_ now, he knew the idiot tended to ask strange questions out of nowhere... He groaned mentally. What was it about him that attracted half-witted idiots?

"So there's no point in playing hard-to-get." Feliciano smiled, taking his brothers hands. "If you want to have sex with America, just tell him straight out."

"W-wh-" Romano choked, head whipping 'round to gape at his brother.

"And if you're too embarrassed to tell him, then just push him down, okay~? He'll figure it out eventually." He pursed his lips. "I hope."

" Gnh? "

"And big brother France says Americans tend to be very dominant in bed; but, I don't think America has any experience, so you'll probably have to take the lead." The younger Italy tilted his head thoughtfully. "I don't think he knows what to _do_."

With a strangled noise, Romano spun on his heel to flee up the stairs and hide under his bed or in the closet until it was safe to come out again, but a loud knock at the door made him freeze as soon as his foot hit the bottom stair.

"Ve~, he's here!" Feliciano exclaimed joyfully, bouncing over to the door.

"No, wait!" Romano hissed frantically, from where he crouched on the stairs, clinging to the railing, "Don't open it yet!"

"What? Why not?" His brother turned to ask confusedly, hand on the doorknob.

"I, I, I, I'm not ready!"

"But you just said you were ready, Romano! I asked not ten minutes ago!"

"I changed my mind, okay?"

Feliciano threw his hands in the air, and went over to try and pry his brother's hands off the banister. "Come _on, _Romano! Let go!"

"No! Stop it! Leave me alone, dammit!" Romano yelled, somehow managing to simultaneously flail at his brother's grasping hands and cling to the railing.

"Come _on,_ Romano! America's waiting, ve~!" Feliciano entreated, wrapping his arms around his brother's waist and tugging insistently. This was worse than trying to drag a reluctant cat from under the bed.

"I don't want to! I changed my mind!"

"Let go!"

"No!"

"_Let go!_"

"_No!_"

"Let-"

"Hey guys! Whatcha doin'?" America asked loudly, popping in from the other room.

"Yaiieee!" Screeched Romano, leaping a foot in the air despite Feliciano's arms around his waist, breaking his brother's hold to bolt, still screaming, up the stairs, where the two remaining nations heard a door slam.

"Ve~," Feliciano sighed disappointedly, "he got away."

"...Was it something I said?" America wondered, staring up the stairway, then turning to Feliciano, eyebrows raised.

"No, Romano's just a little nervous about the trip." Feliciano reassured him.

"Oh? Why would Romano be nervous? Is he afraid of flying? 'Cause he doesn't have to be- I'm a really good pilot. I'll just show him my credentials, that should calm him down."

"Ve~, no, I think it's just that he hasn't been out with anyone in a long time. When he called the other night, brother said he's worried he'll do something wrong, and you won't like him anymore."

"What? He doesn't have to worry about that." America glanced back up the stairs. "I don't think that's possible. I-" He paused, blinking. Wait- Romano cared whether or not he liked him? Wouldn't that mean Romano liked him, too? At least a little, right? Enough to get nervous about it. A giddy, bubbly feeling welled up inside and he grinned uncontrollably, blushing and bouncing on his toes. That was...that was _great_. Just..._great_.

Suddenly, he really had to see Romano.

"...so I'll get some rope, and we can-"

"Hey, Italy," He turned to the smaller nation, interrupting the background chatter he'd barely been aware of anyway, "Y'know, I brought a present for you."

"A present? Yay! What is it?" Feliciano asked eagerly, clasping his hands.

"It's a surprise! But, I sort of left it in the car. Why don't you go and get it while I take care of things here?"

"Okay~!" Feliciano agreed eagerly, bounding to the door and bolting through it once he'd wrestled it open, which took several moments in his excitement. As soon as he was gone, America turned back to the stairwell, and pulled out his cell phone.

Safely curled into a whimpering ball, back pressed against his bedroom door, Romano started and yelped as his phone rang, cutting through the silence. W-who would be calling _now_? "H-hello?"

"Hi, Romano." His breath caught. America? But...America was downstairs, so why would he call...? "I'm glad you picked up. I wasn't sure if you would." His voice was warm and soft, and Romano found himself relaxing a little bit at the sound.

"Th-then why'd you call, idiot?"

"I just really wanted to talk to you." He could tell the idiot was smiling. He could _hear_ it. What was he so happy about?

"Why?"

"'Cause, I like you, Romano. I really like you, alot." Romano's hold tightened around his legs, and he buried his face in his knees.

"I know, bastard. You keep saying that."

"Mm, 'cause it's you're amazing and beautiful and fun and interesting, and, well, I'm really glad I met you. I really like you, Romano, and I don't think there's anything you can say or do that would make me stop liking you. Okay?"

Romano closed his eyes tight against the tears that threatened. "...Y-you can't know that, bastard. N-not for sure."

"Maybe not." America conceded. "But I know myself pretty well. I like you, Romano, and I'm pretty sure I always will. I mean, if it turns out you're like, a crime-lord or something, or steal stuff or kill people or, I don't know, like to kick puppies in your spare time then I'd be sad, sure, and I'd have to try and stop you, but I'd still _like_ you. I'd just have to, you know, show you the error of your ways. But I'm pretty sure you're not a puppy-kicker."

Romano snorted a laugh through his tears, fingers shifting on the phone he held. "Oh, I don't know, bastard. You might be surprised."

"Maybe." America admitted, still smiling. "But we'll deal with that when we come to it. Okay?"

Romano exhaled, and nodded, even though America couldn't see him through the phone. "Yeah. Okay."

"Okay. Now, though, I'd really like to see you, Romano. Can you come out?"

"Un." Romano scrambled to his feet and scrubbed at his eyes, opening the door and stepping out. America was waiting at the foot of the stairs, and gave a little wave when he appeared.

"Hi." America beamed up at him.

"H-hi." He blushed, and almost-smiled back, starting down the stairs. About halfway down he caught sight of his luggage, all packed and ready to go, and remembered why he'd been nervous in the first place. The reality of what he was about to do hit him afresh, and he hesitated, his reservations catching up to him again. Over a _week_ alone with America, _in_ America...across the sea, with no-where to run and hide if things went wrong... his hands started to shake again.

"Romano? You okay?"

"I...I'm not sure I'm ready for this, America." He confessed.

America glanced around at all the suitcases and crates already packed up, and shrugged amiably, turning back to Romano. "Well, if you have more to pack, you can take your time. I rented hangar space for the entire day, so we can leave whenever you're ready."

"That's not-" Romano sighed in frustration, running a hand through his hair. "It's just...why do you want me to visit so badly? What are you expecting to happen? What...what do you _want _from me?"

"What do I want?" America repeated, brows furrowing in confusion. "Well, I want you to have fun, and us to get to know each other better? And, you know, to spend time with you."

"But what are you expecting to _happen_, exactly?" Romano insisted.

"Uh..." America tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling in thought. "Y'know, I hadn't thought about it really. I've been so excited about your coming to visit that I didn't think to make plans for what we should do when you did." He smiled embarrassedly at Romano, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, "Ahhh~, I should have thought it out better. If I'd thought ahead, we probably could have had a parade for you when we landed! With fireworks and a laser show and dancers and everything! And a party!" Completely nonplussed, Romano could only stare while America sighed in disappointment over the lost opportunity. "Damn, I dropped the ball. I'm really sorry, Romano. But, we can do anything you want! Is there anything in particular you want to do?"

Romano's mouth worked for a moment. "N...not a parade." Was all he could think to say.

"Are you sure? 'Cause I bet I could get a pretty awesome parade together if you give me a day or two."

"I'm sure." Romano shook his head. The bastard was making it difficult to freak out properly with all his..._America-ness_. It wasn't easy to maintain a panic in the face of that unbridled enthusiasm. Still, there were some things he had to get straight. Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he started down the stairs. "But there's something I need to know, bastard. Wh- " A misstep sent him tumbling down the stairs- or would have, if America hadn't stepped forward and caught him. Romano found himself nose-to-nose with the nation with the hero complex, his hands on America's shoulders and America holding tightly to his waist. For a moment they just stared at each other, wide-eyed.

"Y-" America began. Funny, his throat seemed to have gone dry all of a sudden. Romano's eyes were even more amazing up close. He swallowed, and tried again. "You okay?"

Unable to vocalize an answer, Romano just nodded, caught in more ways than one.

"Good. That's...good." America said softly, and swallowed again. "I, I wouldn't want anything to happen to you."

"Y-yeah."

"Romano." America started, lowly, almost urgently. "Romano, I..."

"Y-yeah?" Romano licked dry lips, his breath quickening.

"Romano, I really like you. And, I," His eyes flickered, and he blushed, "I know we haven't known each other very long. But, Romano, I..."

"Yes, bastard?" Romano breathed, fingers tightening in the fabric of America's shirt.

"I really want us to be friends." He said, and Romano blinked rapidly.

"W-what?"

"I, I really want us to be friends, Romano." America confessed bashfully, lowering his eyes, blush spreading to his ears.

"You want us to be friends?" Romano repeated, brows furrowing as he tried to comprehend this new information. America thought he was 'amazing' and 'beautiful' and 'interesting', and he wanted to be friends. He opened his mouth, frowned, and closed it again. "Wh-what _kind_ of friends?" He asked cautiously.

"_Good_ friends. _Best_ friends." The blond answered earnestly. "I had a lot of time to think about this on the flight over, and...I know it's a little soon, and you barely know me, and I'm probably jumping the gun here, but Romano...I really think we could be good together. These last two weeks have been some of the best of my life, Romano, and it's all because of you. I, I think about you all the time. About the stuff we've talked about, about our time together last weekend, about...about everything, really. Sometimes I'll read something, or something will happen at work or at home and I'll catch myself wondering what you would think about it, or wishing you were there to see it, stuff like that. I love talking to you, Romano. I can hardly wait to get off of work every day so I can call you and hear your voice. And sure, sometimes we disagree about stuff but I love that even when we argue you don't treat me like I'm some stupid kid. You _listen_ to me, Romano, even when you think I'm being silly or stupid, and that, that means alot."

"Everything you say and think and do is interesting, Romano, and I know with you I'll never be bored. And the more I learn about you, the more I get to know you, the more I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I-"

"S-shut up, bastard." Romano clapped his hands over America's mouth, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears, deeply flushed and trembling. "Shut up shut up shut up." He buried his face in the other's neck and wrapped his arms around it as well, sniffling hard into America's collar.

"R-romano?" America asked, startled, once his mouth was free once more.

"W-who would want to be friends with someone like you? You're such an idiot, idiot." Romano muttered tearfully, grasping the fabric of America's shirt. "But, if you want to be friends that badly, I, I'll do it. I'll, I'll... w-we can be friends."

"Best friends?" America asked hopefully, sliding his arms around Romano.

"Nn, best friends." Romano agreed, voice muffled in his collar. America beamed, squeezing him tightly.

"WAHOO!" America whooped, and spun them around, causing the Italian to cling to him tighter and yelp in surprise. "This is GREAT! You won't regret it! I'll make you so happy, Romano, I promise! We'll be the best best friends EVER, just wait and see!"

"Of course we will, stupid." Romano answered, pulling back to wipe his tears on his sleeve. "I'm the best there is, dammit."

"Mm!" The blond agreed, "So you and me together is super-_duper _awesome!"

"Cheh, of course." Romano huffed, sniffling away the last of his tears and squirming in America's arms, pushing on the larger nation's shoulders. "You can let me down now, bastard. We're done having a moment, dammit."

"Aw," America pouted slightly. "but-"

"I couldn't find the present, America~!" North Italy exclaimed disappointedly, bursting through the front door. "But I got some- Oh!" He stopped at the sight of his brother in America's arms, and dropped the coil of rope he held, beaming. "Romano! You came out! Does that mean you're not scared anymore?"

"I, I wasn't scared, idiot!" Romano defended, wriggling in America's arms until he was (somewhat reluctantly) released, and straightening his clothes. "I just... forgot something, that's all."

"You did? In your room?" Feliciano questioned, brows raising in surprise. That had been an awful lot of screaming for having forgotten something. It must have been important. Probably shoes.

"D-don't ask stupid questions, idiot." His brother muttered defensively, not meeting his eyes. "That's why I went upstairs, isn't it?"

"Ve~, well, did you find it?" Feliciano asked, wedging the front door open so they could move Romano's luggage out more easily. "Are you ready to go now, Romano~?"

"Yeah, I'm good."

"Great!" America grabbed several of the suitcases and turned to smile at his soon-to-be guest. "I'll start loading up the car, then. We've got about an hour's drive ahead of us, so you might want to grab a drink or use the restroom before we go."

"Come on, Romano~, let's make some coffee for you and America to take along." North Italy went over to tug on his brother's sleeve, leading him to the kitchen.

"Good idea." Romano had to admit, allowing his brother to drag him along. "I didn't sleep for shit, dammit."

"I should have it all loaded up by the time you're done." America called after them, and headed out the door to the rental. As he popped the trunk and slung the suitcases in, a car pulled up to the curb behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder curiously to see Germany cut the ignition and get out.

"Ah, America. I'm glad I caught you. I was concerned I would arrive too late." Germany greeted, lifting the manila folder he held in a brief wave and draping his suit jacket over his arm.

"Heya Germany." America greeted with a smile, turning to face the approaching nation. "What's up?"

Joining him at the back of the car, Germany handed him the folder. "I heard South Italy is going to be staying with you for a while, so I prepared some information that I felt you might need."

"Yeah?" America took the folder and leafed through it interestedly, leaning against the back of the car. "'Care and Handling of Italy'?" He read the file heading, and glanced curiously up at Germany.

"It contains almost all of the information I've collected during my interactions with Italy, and Italians in general." Germany elaborated. "I made specific notations in regards to South Italy for your reference, as well."

"This is pretty comprehensive." America said, impressed, as he flipped through page after page. He raised his eyebrows, surprised. "He gets a stomach-ache if he eats too much gelato?"

"They both do." Germany nodded, smoothing back a stray bang that had slipped free of his heavily-gelled hair over the course of the day and had been subsequently driving him nuts with its refusal to stay in place, and leaned back against the car next to the American. "He will try to tell you that he can eat more, but anything more than two-point-eight liters will just make him sick."

"Good to know. Does that apply to ice cream, too?"

"Yes. Any frozen dessert. He'll probably kick you if you refuse to give him more." Germany said resignedly. "So it's best if you don't keep more than he can safely eat in one sitting onhand in the first place, and just purchase more as necessary."

"I see where you wrote that in the annotations. That helps alot, thank you." America acknowledged, absorbed in his reading. "Oh sweet, there's an index and glossary, too."

"I thought that might make it easier to locate the information as you need it." Germany admitted. "I also included a conversion chart for measurements where applicable, since I'm aware you don't always use the metric system in America."

"Nice." Having scanned the folder, America flipped it shut, and slapped the German's shoulder with a grin. "This is awesome, Germany, thanks! I can see you put a lot of thought into this. I really appreciate it!"

"Y-you do?" Germany asked, taken aback. He gave other nations files all the _time, _but none ever _thanked_ him for it.

"Definitely!" The blond affirmed, pushing himself back up off the car. "It'll come in really handy. I'll read it through on the flight if Romano decides to take a nap. Can I contact you if I have any questions?"

"Ah, of course." Germany pulled a pen from his shirt pocket, taking the folder back from America and scribbling his information down. "You should already have my work number, but this is my cell and home number, in case of emergencies, and here is my email for questions which don't require an immediate response. Feel free to contact me at any time."

"Thanks, Germany!" America beamed, taking the folder back and slinging an arm around the other's shoulders. "You're a pretty decent guy, you know that?"

"Y-you're welcome." Germany blushed slightly, embarrassed by the praise and unexpected contact. "I, I'm pleased you found it useful." He gestured to the suitcases America had already loaded into the trunk. "Would you like some help with the rest of these?" He offered, recovering his composure.

"Sure, if you'd like." America answered, releasing the German nation and tossing the file into the driver's seat for later.

A short while later the car was jam-packed, both the trunk and backseat full to bursting with the Italian's luggage.

"Kinda makes you wonder what he packed." America mused, closing the door on the last of it. "If I'd known he was going to bring so much stuff, I'd have rented a bigger car. Or a moving van." He brightened up as a thought occurred to him. "Hey, maybe he brought all this stuff 'cause he's planning to move in! Or, y'know, like, leave stuff for whenever he comes over. Do you think that's why he packed so much?" He asked excitedly.

"It's unlikely." Germany answered offhandedly, preoccupied with trying to smooth that damn lock of hair into place again. He really ought to borrow some product from Italy before they left. "They tend to pack this way regardless of where they're going. I'm fairly certain half of those suitcases contain pasta and shoes." He sighed inwardly as he recalled countless experiences hauling North Italy's pasta-laden luggage wherever they went.

"Oh." America deflated, and Germany felt vaguely guilty for smashing the other's hopes, but they both recovered rapidly from their respective drop in spirits. "Oh well. Maybe he'll want to after he stays over for a bit." America said, with philosophical optimism. "Then he can choose a room, and I can set it up so he has a place to stay whenever he comes over. Or if he doesn't like any of 'em, then I can remodel one to his specifications. Or build addition onto the house, if he'd rather have his own kitchen and stuff. Whatever he wants." He nodded in satisfaction.

"If he's anything like his brother, that won't be necessary." Germany offered. "He will most likely end up sharing your own room. His brother has always stayed in mine, even though I've always provided him with his own."

"That works!" America said cheerfully. "Welp, I guess we should let them know we're all packed and ready to go."

Back inside the house, they met Feliciano in the hallway, coming from the kitchen. "Germany!" He greeted, flinging himself at the other nation. "I missed you~. When did you get here?"

"I arrived a short while ago." Germany answered, leaning down to kiss his lover's cheek, blushing slightly. "I've been assisting America with your brother's luggage. Ah-" He shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. "I, I l-love you."

"_Nice_." America grinned, slapping him on the back. "You've gotten a lot better at that!" Germany blushed heavily, but only nodded.

"Ve~, Germany's been working really hard!" Feliciano beamed proudly, leaning against the taller nation. "He's made me so happy!"

"That's great!" America congratulated. "I'm happy for you guys. Is Romano still in the kitchen? Everything's loaded in the car, so we're ready to go whenever he is."

"Oh, that's what I came out to tell you." Feliciano recalled. "Romano fell asleep while we were making coffee. I can't wake him up, ve~. Come and see!" Releasing Germany, he led the way to the kitchen, where Romano lay sprawled in his seat, head pillowed on his arms on the tabletop.

"Awww." America grinned, pulling out his cell to take a picture. "That's so cute!"

"He's drooling." Germany pointed out.

"I know! He's _adorable_." America effused, lowering his voice so as not to awaken the sleeping nation, and crouching down to get a better camera angle.

"He _is_ adorable." Feliciano agreed, smiling affectionately at his comatose, drooling sibling.

Germany shrugged mentally, and went to dig in the refrigerator for a beer. It was just South Italy drooling on a table, as far as he was concerned.

"Do you think he'd kill me if I set this as my wallpaper?" America wondered, finger hovering over the button to do just that.

"Ve~, well, you can try and keep him from seeing it." Feliciano offered helpfully.

"And sleep with one eye open." Germany contributed, reaching into the back of the fridge to where Feliciano usually kept beer hidden for him, safe behind the Swiss cheese (which Romano hated, and so never touched. The younger Italy had learned that hiding it behind potatoes or anything else vaguely Germany-related only meant that both the beer and whatever it was hidden behind would be thrown out).

"Worth it." America decided, and made it so. "Sweet." He beamed down at his new wallpaper, before sliding his cell back into his pocket. "Well, I can carry him without any problems. You think that'll wake him up, though?"

"I don't think so." Feliciano said doubtfully. "I can't wake him up at all, see?" He leaned over to poke his brother's cheek. "Romano~, Romano! Brother, brother, wake up!"

"Aw, let him sleep." America said, catching Feliciano's hand. "He must be pretty tired if he's sleeping at the table. I'll just carry him out and he can sleep in the car. And there's a bed in the jet if he's still tired when we get to the airport, so he should be comfortable enough."

"There's a bed in your jet?" Feliciano asked excitedly.

"Of course! I brought one with a bed 'cause I figured he might want to sleep during the flight, since we won't get back 'til pretty late." America explained, carefully sliding his arms underneath the sleeping nation, gently transferring his weight from the chair to his arms. "You wanna grab him a pillow or something for the car? I don't want his neck to get sore."

"Ve~, good idea, America!" Feliciano agreed. "I'll go get one!"

"'Kay, I'll meet you out at the car." America smiled, shifting Romano in his arms so the Italian's head was resting on his shoulder.

"I'll come along to assist you with the doors and recline the passenger seat." Germany offered, having loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves to enjoy his beer while the others were busy with South Italy.

"Thanks." America nodded appreciatively, and in very short order the trio had settled South Italy safely and comfortably in the passenger seat of the car.

"Goodbye, Romano~. Have fun! I'll miss you~." Feliciano said, kissing his sleeping brother's cheek.

"Make sure to call if you have any problems." Germany reminded America, as they shook hands. "Even if it seems minor. It's better to ask than to regret not asking later."

"I will. Thanks again for everything." America affirmed, patting the other nation companionably on the shoulder.

"Goodbye America! Take good care of brother!" Feliciano hugged America, leaning up to kiss his cheek as well. "Don't feed him any hamburgers, okay~?"

"Haha! Only if he wants some." America laughed, waving goodbye as he slid into the drivers seat and buckled up. "We'll see you guys at the meeting! G'bye~!"

"Goodbye~!" Feliciano waved.

"Take care. Drive safely!" Germany lifted his hand in farewell. With one last wave and smile, America started up the car and took off.

The two nations watched it disappear into the distance. As they turned to re-enter the house, Germany was alarmed to see Feliciano in tears.

"W-what's wrong? Are you hurt?" He asked, pulling the other nation closer to look him over.

"No, it's just..." Feliciano sniffled, wiping at his tears, "I'm very happy for brother, but it feels kind of lonely. Romano's always been here when I come back, but now the house is going to be empty. It's like he's going away to get married!"

"Ah." Germany relaxed, simultaneously relieved that it wasn't anything serious and bewildered that Italy was getting emotional about his brother going away for just barely over a _week_. Especially since he stayed at Germany's place more often than not, anyway. "Well," He consoled awkwardly, patting North Italy's shoulder, "he's not getting married. I don't think you will have to worry about that for some time. And you will see him at the G-8 meeting five days from now. So it's not like you'll be apart very long."

"That's true. And I can always call brother if I get lonely!" Feliciano said, and clapped his hands excitedly as something occurred to him. "And, if brother _does_ get married, then everytime the G-8 meets it'll be like a family reunion!"

Germany stopped dead in his tracks at the thought, his brain working rapidly. If South Italy and America...and his brother was seeing Canada...and England and France had practically raised the two, so that would mean... "_Himmelherrgott_." He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose under the force of his sudden headache. "I'm going to need a lot more beer."

* * *

_AN: No-one can rock a skirt like Feliciano. I feel kinda bad for teasing Romano, but his brother is bloody gorgeous in the damn things._

_I don't know if you've been checking up on Himaruya's site, but Romano's relationship with Rome just made me fall deeper in love with him. _

_Oh, oh! **Hanawa** made a Romerica fanart for 'Educating America' that you really have to see. Additionally, my one-shot 'It's Magic' was recently reviewed in the webzine '**World Parade**' (misgendered, but I've gotten used to that hanging out in fanfiction circles). Check my profile for the links!_

_And now I really, really, need some sleep, like you wouldn't believe. _


	33. Mi Casa Es Su Casa

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. **

_Missed you! __I would have had this up sooner, but 1. argh, and 2. Argh. So here you go. I know there's errors in it but I am so tired and have posting withdrawals so bad I need to get this up ASAP. I promise I'll fix it up later. There was stuff I wanted to say, too, but all thought has fled in the wake of exhaustion._

_If you want a reply to your review, please sign in or let me know where to reply to, 'cause I am unable to respond to unsigned reviews. I do like to reply, and again, reviewing is not necessary nor something you should consider an obligation. There's no need to apologise for not reviewing! I mean, sure, I love reviews, but they're like the ice cream on pie ala mode, so to speak. The ice cream is delicious, but we can enjoy the pie on its own. I write and post this for both of us to enjoy, gratis. I don't expect anything 'in return', but I'm pleased if I brought you any enjoyment. So don't worry, 'kay?_

_Bon Appetit!_

* * *

Romano woke wrapped in something warm and soft, the hum of engines in his ears. He didn't bother opening his eyes- he was comfortable, and warm, and the low-level vibration was lulling him back to sleep; so instead he burrowed deeper into his nest, fully prepared to succumb.

Unfortunately, something was tickling his face, irritating him into wakefulness. He tried curling up to escape it, but that just resulted in his ear being tickled, too. _Dammit_, he was trying to _sleep_, he was too _comfortable_ for this shit. Or _would_ be, if whatever the hell this was would stop tickling him. He slit an eye open, glancing to the side to see what was interrupting his rest. His gaze met with the soft fur ruff of America's jacket, and he shifted, reaching up to stroke it with his fingertips, musing. Friends, huh? That hadn't been what he'd expected. Not that he'd expected anything, really- he wouldn't have known _what_ to expect, the whole situation was strange and new and...strange, and he'd been in an almost constant state of confusion since America had dragged him to that stupid diner.

Now that things were cleared up, though... friends, huh? He buried his face in the fur, breathing deeply. Friends was... good. He could do friends. Friends was, was... _safe_. Right? And America...really wanted to be friends. He blushed, lips twitching up as he remembered the things the other nation had said about him, and slid his arms into the sleeves of America's jacket.

He could do friends.

Not just friends, he corrected himself as he sat up, pulling the bomber up around his shoulders. _Best_ friends. America wanted to be his _best_ friend. _Was_ his best friend.

He zipped up the jacket, pulling the collar up around the lower half of his face, closing his eyes and soaking in the scent that permeated the soft fur and leather.

He was somebody's _best_.

Somebody wanted _him_ most. Somebody wanted him _most_.

Not just_ somebody._ _America_. America, who was so, so...he thought back on everything that'd happened the last few weeks; the diner, _Nino's_, dinner at the restaurant, the ride home, Sunday brunch, all the calls and conversations and texts and messages and...just, just _everything_. All the little ways America had become a part of his life. _Would_ be a part of his life from now on, if what he'd said was any indication.

_Best friends._

Romano smiled.

He and America were Best Friends.

* * *

America'd been riding a giddy high since Romano'd agreed to be his friend. _Best_ friend. He couldn't stop smiling. To be honest, he hadn't expected his relationship with Romano to progress so quickly. He'd told himself to be patient, to wait, to win Romano over slowly... but then Romano was _there_, in his arms, so close and so...so..._Romano_, he couldn't help himself— he'd just blurted out everything on his mind. And instead of getting mad or running away or a flat-out refusal like he'd half-expected, Romano had agreed to be friends. _Best_ friends.

His cheeks _ached_ from the force of his grin. He just didn't seem to be able to keep the smile from his face. That was to be expected, though, 'cause _Romano_ was his _best friend_. Just the thought of it made him want to jump in his seat and sing and dance and shout it from the rooftops- _Romano_ _was his_ _best friend_.

He had to fly the plane, though, so no dancing yet. Maybe when they landed. Not long now! With his head in the clouds and Romano on the brain, it was a good thing that flying was second nature to him by now. Not that it required too much concentration once you were airborne, in a jet like this. As long as atmospheric conditions were good, all he had to do was keep an eye on the instruments, really. The takeoff and landing were the only parts that required much attention, and he could do that in his _sleep_ if he had to_. (_Not that he had, of course, but he totally could.) Which was nice, 'cause it meant he was able to flip through the manual Germany'd provided, which was pretty interesting, actually. Who knew Italians would die if they learned French? Huh. Did Canadian French count? He'd have to check with Germany before introducing Canada to Romano. You never knew when Mattie might slip into a little of his _Québécois _jargon. He could hardly wait to introduce his brother to his new best friend.

Hm. Would french fries be a problem? Well, they could always do like England did and call them 'chips' (pffft, chips. Iggy was so wierd.) to be on the safe side.

He checked the time. Another 15 minutes or so and they'd be landing, about an hour till they'd be home, and _he_ _was_ _going to have his best friend over for a __**whole week. **__Plus_ a weekend! He bit his lip, blushing happily. Fuck it, he couldn't even _pretend_ to read anymore, he was _way_ too excited. He leant over in his seat to put the manual away for later perusal, sliding it into the basket of goodies Amata had sent along for him and Romano ("Since I am sure you have forgotten to plan for your meals. I know how young men are." The elderly Italian woman had teased as she'd handed him the basket, laughing when he'd blushed sheepishly. "It is easy to understand. You've had more important things on your mind, no?" She'd added, with a knowing smile and a wink. "The next time you are in Italy, you will come to dinner with Lovino. It is a promise!" ) when he'd stopped by _Nino's_ to pick things up before heading to Romano's.

_Damn_ this week was going to be so awesome. He and Romano were going to do all _sorts_ of stuff. _Best friend_ stuff. (He wasn't sure what that would be, exactly, since he'd never had a best friend before, but doing _anything_ with Romano was cool. It didn't matter if they just laid around doing nothing, as long as he was doing it with Romano.)

He blinked, and sniffed tentatively. Was that...coffee? Yep, he definitely recognised the scent of coffee filling the air. Either he was hallucinating, or ...Romano was up! Yay! He pressed a button on the instrument panel.

* * *

"Hey Romano!"

"Yaii!" Romano jumped, jostling the miniature coffeemaker he'd found in the kitchenette he'd discovered while exploring (barely deserving of the name, since it was basically the coffeemaker, a mini fridge filled with soda, and a microwave) and nearly splattering the hot liquid all over in his surprise at the unexpected the sound of America's voice. "W-what the hell?"

"Romano, is that you? You awake? I smell coffee." Romano blinked, and looked around. No sign of America, so where...? Oh, there was a speaker on the wall. "Romano? Or, I suppose I could be hallucinating, in which case I hope I didn't wake you up, but-" He pressed the 'talk' button, cutting off the other nation's rambling.

"Yeah, bastard, I'm awake."

"Sweet! You sleep alright?"

"Yeah, I slept okay. Where are you?"

"Cockpit! Come on up when you're done there! Hey, can you grab me a soda while you're in there?"

"Sure you don't want some coffee instead, bastard? I'm pretty sure there's enough for both of us."

"Well, I wouldn't mind some, but I'm pretty sure there's only one cup in there."

Romano checked, and sure enough, the only cup- heck, the only _dish_ in the tiny kitchenette (ha!) was the one he'd already pulled out. He picked it up, considering. It was a pretty big damn cup. Bigger than the miniature coffeepot, practically. Definitely enough to hold the contents of the thing. "If you really want some coffee, I, I don't mind sharing. But you're gonna have to drink it black, and I don't want to hear any whining about how strong it is, dammit."

"Really? Sweet! Then yes, please, I'll have some!"

"'Kay. Be there when it's done." Ending the conversation with a release of the button, Romano poured the coffee (bunching the sleeves of the bomber up around his arms first so he wouldn't get coffee on them while he did so), and carried it to the cockpit, where he found America sitting in the pilot's seat, fiddling with something on the instrument panel in front of him. At the sight of the blond nation his heart sped up, and he blushed, suddenly feeling a little shy and awkward. He wasn't sure how to act. America was his first friend outside of Spain. It was... a little scary. He wasn't sure what to do. How did it work? Was, was there something he was supposed to be doing? Some special way best friends were supposed to act? He didn't know. What if he got it wrong? Dammit, why did America put him in this situation? Thoughtless bastard. Some best friend _he_ was turning out to be, the idiot. He didn't _deserve_ any coffee, dammit. He could damn well wait to have any until Romano was done. _That'd_ teach him to throw him into things without any kind of explanation of how it was supposed to go. Confused, worried and angry, Romano entered the cockpit, settling the co-pilot's seat with a defensive scowl. "Alright, you jerk. How is this 'best friends' thing supposed to work, dammit?"

"Hey, Romano!" America greeted, beaming; and blushed a little in happiness and suppressed excitement at seeing him. "What do you mean?"

"This..." Romano gestured vaguely in frustration. "What are we supposed to _do_? What's...how do best friends...how am I supposed to _act_? What're the rules, bastard?"

"Oh." America tilted his head in thought. "Uh, to be honest I'm not really sure. I've never had a best friend before."

"Y-you haven't?" Romano asked, surprised.

"Nope!" America answered readily. "You're my first! But, I figure we can just keep doing what we've been doing. I mean, we've gotten a lot closer in the last couple weeks, right? So maybe if we keep going like we have been, then we can keep on getting closer!"

"Oh." Romano pondered. That sounded easy enough. Was that really all there was to it? "You really think that'll work?"

"Sure! It's worked so far, right? So let's just be ourselves, and let what happens, happen! Just, y'know, do what comes naturally."

"Okay, bastard. I can do that." Romano agreed, relaxing a bit now that the pressure was off. He sipped his coffee, and looked out the windshield. And blinked. "Uh...aren't you supposed to be able to see through this thing? Do you have to turn it on, or something? Like a screen?"

America glanced at him questioningly, and back outside the windshield to the darkness beyond. "Oh. Ha, no, it's clear. It's just a windshield. You can see out of it just fine, it's just that it's night, and there's heavy cloud cover at this altitude, so you can't actually _see_ anything out there."

"Then how do you know where you're going?" Romano wondered.

"By keeping an eye on the instruments." America explained, indicating the panel. At Romano's uncomprehending glance, he elaborated. "Like this one," He tapped a complicated looking dial on the panel, "this is my HSI -Horizontal Situation Indicator. It tells me where I am and whether I'm on course or not. This here," he pointed to a tiny cross-shaped icon in the center, "represents the plane, and this," he pointed to a small white triangle near the top, "shows my heading. I set that when I start out. This bar here is the Course Deviation Indicator, that's pretty self explanatory. That and the Course Deviation Scale show me if I'm off course, and how far. Of course this part is just a compass, and- uh," He caught sight of Romano's blank look, and retracted his hand. "Sorry, I can get a little enthusiastic about this stuff. Basically all these instruments tell me where I am and what's going on, both outside and with the jet, the engines and fuel and atmospheric conditions and stuff, so I can basically fly by the instruments alone. Y'see?"

"...So...you don't need to see out the windshield?" Romano reiterated, that being the only thing he'd gotten from the explanation.

America grinned. "Haha, nope. I don't need to see outside the windshield. I mean, it's nice if I can, but it's not absolutely necessary most of the time. I actually have more instruments than you'd normally need," He confessed, glancing over the panel. "But I like to have backups in case something happens, and I like to have more control over the actual _flying_, so they come in handy."

Romano stared out the window, unable to see anything but darkness and their reflections. "But...what about landing? Don't they call off flights if it's, y'know, too foggy and shit?"

America nodded. "Yeah, they do, but this is just cloud cover. Once we get closer to the ground it'll clear up. You'll see when we land in about fifteen minutes."

"Fifteen minutes?" Romano repeated, taken aback. "How long did I sleep?"

"A while." Admitted America. "You were pretty dead to the world. You didn't even wake up when we took off."

"Oh. S-sorry." Romano looked down at his rapidly-cooling coffee, a little embarrassed at having slept through their first several hours together.

"It's okay, I figured you needed the rest. You seemed pretty wiped."

"Yeah." Romano agreed. "I was pretty exhausted. Feliciano had me running around all morning."

"Haha, brothers." America grinned. "You feeling rested now?"

"Yeah, I'm good."

"Good. I should probably be tired, but I'm way too excited." America laughed. "I've been looking forward to spending time with you like you wouldn't believe. And now that we're best friends, I'm so excited I don't think I'll be able to sleep for _days_."

Romano blushed, holding out the coffee for him to take. "Maybe you need this more than I do."

"Thanks." Taking a few quick gulps, America licked his lips and looked down at the liquid inside, frowning thoughtfully. "Hmm."

"No complaining." Romano reminded him.

"No, it's...it's not bad." America clarified, taking another swig. "It's just...different."

"That's 'cause it's your damn coffee this time." Romano explained with a frown, pushing the jacket sleeves back down his arms. "I couldn't find anything else. What happened to the coffee that idiot Feliciano was supposed to make?"

"We sorta forgot about it when we were moving you to the car." He sniffed the cup curiously. "This is the stuff I had in the kitchenette?" (Romano scoffed.) "How come it doesn't taste like this when I make it? Do you put something in it?"

"Yeah, bastard. Competence." Romano replied dryly, smoothing out the soft leather.

"Hey." America objected mildly. He downed the last of it, and checked the cup to make sure he hadn't missed any. "You're gonna have to teach me how to make it like this."

"If it keeps you from inflicting that poison you try to pass off as coffee on people, then I guess I'll have to make the sacrifice." Romano agreed, toying idly with the cuff of a sleeve.

"Haha, it's not that bad. It gets the job done, which is the point. You cold?"

"What?"

"Cold?" America repeated, indicating the bomber he still wore. Romano blinked down at it, and blushed.

"A-a little." He answered, wrapping his arms around himself and hunching deeper into the jacket. It _was_ a little chilly in here, dammit.

"Yeah, I tend to keep the temperature a little lower in here." America smiled apologetically. "Well, we'll be landing in a few minutes, and then we'll be moving to a car, but it might be a bit cold 'til the car warms up, so I'll get you a blanket to help keep you warm 'til then. Watch the skies for me, Romano~!" He grinned and winked, spinning his chair and getting up to leave the cockpit.

"Wait wait wait what are you _doing?_" Romano yelped, grabbing his arm. "I don't know how to fly this thing, bastard! We're going to crash!"

"Haha, don't worry, Romano! It's on autopilot." America reassured him. "We'll be fine, I can just pop back there and grab you a blanket and I'll be back in plenty of time to land, okay?"

"Th-that's okay, I, I'm fine without a blanket." Romano glanced nervously out the windshield, not entirely reassured. He tugged on the American's arm, urging him to sit back down."I'm plenty warm in this. Okay? So you can sit down."

"You sure?"

"Yes. Yes. I'm warm enough. It's fine, dammit."

"'Kay." America shrugged, sitting back down in the pilot's seat, to Romano's relief. "Hey." He said after a moment. "C'mere a sec." He gestured for Romano to come closer.

"...Why?" Romano asked guardedly.

"I wanna show you something! C'mon, c'mere." America smiled encouragingly, patting his lap.

"I guess I have no choice, dammit. But if you do anything weird, I'm going to punch you." He warned, getting out of his seat and sliding reluctantly into America's lap.

America laughed. "Don't worry, I won't do anything weird. Here, push those sleeves up a bit. Okay? You comfy?"

"About as comfortable as I'm going to get." Romano answered with complete honesty.

"'Kay. Now, grab the yoke." He directed, patting the 'steering wheel' of the jet.

"'Kay." Romano reached out and grabbed it. "What's the point of all this, bastard?"

"You're gonna help me land the 'plane." America explained, settling his hands over Romano's on the yoke.

"W-what?" Romano's head whipped 'round to stare at the American in disbelief.

"You're gonna help me land the plane." America repeated, squeezing Romano's hands encouragingly. "Don't worry, you can do it. It'll be fun!"

Romano faced forward again, glancing with wide-eyed nervousness from the yoke to the darkness outside the windshield. "But I don't know how to land. I don't know how to _fly_. And I can't see anything out there."

America chuckled. "I'll lead you through it. Now, we're going to have to lose some altitude here, so let's get down below the cloudcover. To do that, just press forward a little, here. Just a little bit. Slow and gentle, 'kay?" He guided Romano's hands on the yoke, and slowly the plane descended. For several long moments all Romano saw was the darkness, and then, suddenly, they broke through the clouds.

For a moment Romano thought they were flying upside-down. Thousands of pinpoints of light were scattered on a field of velvet darkness below them, solitary or in clusters not unlike the stars and constellations of the night sky. Then he noticed the bands of light that networked throughout, coruscating across the expanse like the lines on a roadmap (which was, in a way, what it was; a living map of cities and towns and roads and dwellings in light and shadow across the earth below), and realized that no, they were flying high over America. The light from below was reflected across the underside of the clouds, so they flew in a sort of soft, ambient light as they skimmed the cloudline.

"Nice, huh?" America murmured appreciatively. "I never get tired of this."

"It's something else." Romano admitted. "Feliciano would love this."

"Well, maybe when you learn a little more and get your license, you can take him up and show him." America offered, smiling.

"You really think I could?" Romano wondered, glancing up at the other nation.

"Easy." America nodded, guiding them lower.

"I dunno, bastard." Romano responded dubiously, concentrating on their flight. "Aren't flying lessons expensive?"

America snorted. "Dude. Your _best friend_ is a certified flight instructor. I don't think that'll be an issue."

Romano's lips twitched up. "Heh. Maybe not."

"Okay, let's level off." America eased the yoke into a neutral position, and lifted a hand to point out a series of parallel lines drawn in lights a ways ahead on their current heading. "You see those lights, there?" Romano nodded. "That's our landing strip. We'll circle it first to make sure it's clear- that there's no other planes or vehicles or trees or something that might obstruct our landing, and then we'll come 'round again and move in for landing."

"What if there's something there?" Romano asked.

"Then we'd probably have to divert to another landing site." The American explained. "There's a private airport about half an hour north of here, we could land there. I'd have to radio ahead to let them know what's up and make sure they have a strip cleared and lit for us and give them time to make schedule changes to any preplanned flights if it's a busy night, but they usually have a few strips free at any given time. It shouldn't be a problem, though." He reassured. "This is my private strip, and the land around it is pretty clear. Sometimes my pilot buddies will land there, or the airfield will direct someone to land here if it's an emergency, but they're usually pretty good about calling ahead first. Might have to watch out for deer, though." He scanned the instruments, and looked up the check a series of switches and dials above his head, then leaned forward (forcing Romano to lean forward as well, since his back was basically flush against America's chest) to run his fingers across the top of the panel. "Personal ritual." He explained at Romano's questioning look, and reached back to pull a seatbelt around them both, buckling them in. "We're gonna circle the strip now and prep for landing."

"'Kay." Romano tightened his grip on the yoke, focusing anxiously out the window on the dimly-lit strip below as he and America circled the plane to check for obstacles.

"All clear?" America asked.

"L-looks clear to me, bastard." Romano answered, voice shaking a little. He pressed back against America, drawing reassurance from the larger nation's calm, and glanced up for confirmation. America grinned down at him.

"Yep, looks clear to me too. Nice work." He eased the yoke forward, focusing on the strip in front of them. "Now, let's take her in for landing." Romano turned to watch the light-lined asphalt roadway, which seemed to rise to meet them (though the sensation of falling in his stomach told him otherwise). America nudged him, and pointed to a switch to his right. "Flip that switch, there." Romano complied, removing his hand from the yoke to flip the switch indicated, taking the 'wheel' again when he'd done so. America replaced his hand over Romano's with a nod. "Good. That lowers the landing gear. Now, pull her nose up just a bit." They pulled back on the yoke, almost imperceptibly, and the front end of the 'plane lifted slightly, though the tail remained low. "That's so that the main landing gear hits the runway first, and takes most of the weight of the 'plane." There was a slight bump as it did just that. "Now we level her out," He evened out the yoke again, and the front wheel of the landing gear hit the runway with a softer bump, "and the rest is clear sailing, so to speak. Nice, smooth landing. Good job, Romano! You just landed your first plane!" He grinned proudly.

"Th-that wasn't so hard." Romano admitted, still shaking a little.

"Not at all." America agreed. "Now we just have to steer her into the hangar, and we're home free. You did great!"

Romano grinned a little, nervousness melting into giddy relief and pride. He'd done it! He'd helped land the 'plane! It'd been pretty easy, actually. If that was as hard as it got, he could learn to fly in _no_ time. He couldn't _wait_ to tell Feliciano and Spain.

A little while later, they'd disembarked, and he was sitting in the rapidly-warming cab of one of America's trucks, waiting for the other nation to finish loading his luggage into the truck bed so they could get going. Since it looked like he had a few minutes he rummaged around underneath the bomber to find his phone. Might as well make some calls while he waited.

Predictably, he got Spain's voicemail. The idiot had probably lost his damn phone again (Spain's phone was forever falling out of his pockets, slipping between seat cushions, falling down storm drains, into toilets or rivers or what the hell ever; and it was usually _days_ before Spain even noticed it was missing). For that reason, Romano didn't usually bother to leave a message beyond "Call me back, bastard!", but this time he decided to take the chance. "Oi, Spain! Where are you, bastard? Check your messages once in a while, dammit! You'd better not have lost your phone, idiot! I'm not going to buy you a new one this time! Now listen up, I'm gonna tell you something good! You listening, bastard? Guess what, Spain? I just landed a 'plane! A _private jet_! Pretty amazing, right? _I_ did it!" The sound of the truck's rear gate closing caught his attention, and he looked back to see America wrapping things up. "I gotta go. Call me back, bastard!"

America handed him a picnic basket as he slid into the driver's seat. "Here, hold this. Can't fit it in back."

"What's in it?" Romano asked, lifting the lid to look in. "If it's hamburgers, I'm not touching it."

"I'm not entirely sure. I was too excited to eat." America admitted as they pulled onto the road. "There's cookies, I know. Amata sent it along."

"She did? Nice." Romano rummaged through the basket, eager to partake now that he knew it contained actual food. He'd missed two meals and he was _starving_, dammit. "What were you doing at _Nino's_?" He asked, gnawing on a piece of _Focaccia_.

"I was- hey, you forgot your seatbelt." America noticed for the first time since pulling onto the road.

"I didn't forget it, I'm just not wearing it." Romano corrected unconcernedly, watching the seemingly endless line of fir trees passing outside the window. Did America live out in the middle of the wilderness, or something?

"Gotcha." America's smile twitched in amusement. "Well, mind putting it on? It's kind of a law around here."

"It's not like you'll get into trouble for it, bastard." Romano answered, pulling the rest of the _Focaccia_ out of the basket, having already devoured half of it. Amata'd really outdone herself this time. The bastard didn't know what he was missing out on. "If anyone pulls you over, just explain I'm your buddy. Problem solved."

"Doesn't Italy have seatbelt laws?" America wondered, slowing down.

"I _am_ Italy, idiot." South Italy said dryly. "_I_ decide what I'm going to do, and seatbelt laws are _stupid_. No-one tells me what I have to do in my own damn car, dammit."

"And in my car?" America asked, grinning. Romano's stubborness was kind of cute. Reminded him of a lot of his people down South, actually.

"Still not wearing a seatbelt, bastard." Romano glanced outside the windshield at the road ahead. "Why are we stopping here?" He looked around at the trees and darkness surrounding them. They couldn't possibly be there already. Unless America really _did _live in the wilderness.

"Not going any further 'til you put your seatbelt on." America grinned at him, and he narrowed his eyes.

"What."

"Seeaaaatbeeellllt~." America sang.

"You have _got_ to be kidding."

"Nope. Not another inch 'til you belt up."

Romano scowled, lowering his _Focaccia_ to glower at the other nation. "You realize I could just kick your ass and take the keys, right?"

America quirked an eyebrow at him. "You think so?"

"I _know_ so, bastard." Romano affirmed.

With a challenging stare, America pulled the keys from the ignition, reached down to tug on the waistband of his slacks, dropped the keys down the front of his pants, and smirked. "Go for it."

Romano's mouth dropped open. "You _bastard."_

"Takes one to know one." America's smirk widened.

"Fuck you, asshole." Romano growled, throwing himself back in his seat and huffily fastening his belt. Safely buckled in, he crossed his arms and stared out the passenger window, blushing furiously. Listening to America digging around in his pants for the keys, he reassured himself that he _could_ have just kicked America's ass and taken the keys _and_ his damn pants, dammit, but he didn't know where they were going, so it would have been pointless.

"Thank you, Romano~." America said as he started up the engine and pulled out onto the dark road again.

"You owe me for this, bastard." Romano grumbled, steadfastly not looking at the other nation.

"Fair enough." America responded amiably.

"I don't see why it's so important that I wear the damn thing." Romano sulked. "It's not like anything's going to happen."

"You never know." America said. "Lots of deer out here. And sometimes a bear or a moose will wander into the road. Kinda hard to see 'em in the dark 'til you're right up on 'em."

"Bears?" Romano asked nervously, looking at America. Then he blinked. "Wait, a moose? You have mooses out here?"

"Moose." America corrected. "Yeah, sometimes."

"How do you know it's just one moose?" Romano wondered, brows furrowing in confusion.

"Several moose, actually. It's 'moose' whether there's one or lots. Like, you know, sheep."

"Really? That's stupid. How are you supposed to know how many mooses someone's talking about?"

"Moose. Usually you don't see more than one, but I guess you can just say 'I saw some moose' or 'a moose', and if people want to know how many they can ask."

"Are we likely to see a moose? Or some moose?" Romano asked, looking anxiously out the windows as if a moose would loom out of the darkness at any moment. He kind of wanted to see one, but it was kind of scary, too. He'd seen one in a zoo before, and it was fuckin' _huge_. "Are they dangerous?"

"Yes and no." America answered, unhelpfully. "You wouldn't want to meet one on your own, but as long as you're with me you'll be alright. They won't do anything if I'm around. I know all the ones around here pretty well."

"You do? What would they do if I was alone? Do moose bite?"

"Usually they leave you alone, but sometimes they'll charge or kick or try and trample things. Moose aren't like deer, they're a lot more aggressive. You don't want to meet one alone in the wild. They can weigh over half a ton, and pretty much demolish a car without much effort. Don't worry, though." He reassured belatedly. "That won't happen."

Almost unconsciously, Romano reached over and gripped the sleeve of America's shirt tightly, suddenly thankful for the extra security of the seatbelt. Fuck bears, he was going to have nightmares about _moose_ from now on. "Y-you have your gun with you, right, bastard?"

"You know it." America affirmed. "Never leave home without it."

Romano relaxed somewhat, but kept a wary eye on the road and surrounding treeline.

A nerve-wracking ten minutes or so later, they were pulling into America's driveway, having made it without having been attacked by any wild moose or bears or deer or anything else that might be lurking in the wilderness waiting to pounce on unwary visitors, and Romano felt he could breathe easy again.

"Well, we're here!" America announced as he cut the engine, turning to smile excitedly at him. "C'mon Romano, I'll give you the tour."

Grabbing the picnic basket (he was still hungry, dammit), Romano followed the taller nation to his door. Unlocking it quickly, America stepped inside and flicked a switch, flooding the doorway and room inside with light. Holding the door open for Romano, he gestured for the Italian nation to enter. "Make yourself at home, Romano." He grinned, practically vibrating with excitement. "_Mi casa es su casa._"

Romano huffed a little in amusement, and stepped inside, looking curiously around the foyer. Before he made it more than a few feet, though, America reached out and caught his hand.

"Oh, wait!" The American said urgently, taking the picnic basket from Romano's other hand and putting it aside. "I wanted to say something! I should have said it when we landed, but I totally forgot."

"...Alright, bastard." Romano answered hesitantly, blushing when America took both his hands and beamed down at him. "What is it?"

"Romano South Italy," America stated warmly, eyes glowing, "_Welcome to America_."

* * *

_AN: _


	34. Settling In

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

_I would not be posting this, because frankly it's awful, but I haven't posted for this story in far too long and I need to get something up before I lose the flow entirely. I haven't had much chance to write this last month, between family matters, weather, and work, so I'm afraid I've been thrown entirely off my groove. Please be patient with me while I get back into the swing of things._

_I apologise, to you and to poor Romano and America, for the quality of the following. _

* * *

Unsurprisingly, America's house was big. Everything about it was big. The halls were wide, the ceilings high, the doorways broad and deep. Lofty archways connected room to corridor to room, each spaceous, roomy and expansive, and many other adjectives that meant really, really big; almost as if someone had expected a family of smallish giants to live there, and had designed everything on a proportionately grander scale to accomodate them. Sweden would have fit in perfectly. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if America had contracted some of the Baltic's people to build it- he definitely recognized Swedish influence in the construction and design.

It wasn't as if it wasn't a _nice_ house; of good, solid construction and tasteful, if bland, decor. It wasn't even the size that unsettled him, really (although that was kind of intimidating and was a fresh reminder that America as a country was vast, much bigger than Italy- than most countries, when you got right down to it); but he could get used to that. Spain's house had been pretty big once, too. And his grandfather's house had been _huge_.

It was just that he became increasingly aware as he followed the nation through room after room, down halls and up steps and through doors, that on top of being very big, the house was also very, very... empty. Oh, there was furniture and draperies and pictures on the walls. But it was clear that nobody had _used_ any of these rooms anytime in recent history, if anyone ever had at all.

Underneath the sound of the blond's excited chatter as he showed him around, their footsteps rang on beautiful, hardwood floors, echoing hollowly off walls and high ceilings, emphasizing the fact that it was basically uninhabited, save for America.

"...And that's the downstairs. C'mon, I'll show you the upstairs!" America announced, grabbing his hand and leading him eagerly up the staircase.

"Hey, America," Romano wondered, finally voicing his thoughts, "how much of this house do you actually _use_?"

"Um," America answered, thinking about it. "mostly just the living room and the kitchen and my bedroom. And I have a workshop out in the garage I do stuff in sometimes. But, I'm the only one here most of the time, so..." He shrugged.

"You said you had a brother, right bastard?"

"Hm? Oh, yeah. Canada." America nodded, smiling and squeezing his hand. "You'll meet him soon. You'll like him, he's really nice! Don't tell him I said that, though."

"Okay. So, uh, where does he live?"

America gave him a funny look. "He lives in Canada."

"_No_, idiot." Romano frowned. "I meant, where does he live in comparison to you? Where's Canada, exactly?"

"Oh. Canada's north of the US, bordering my northernmost states, basically. I can show you on the map later if you like."

"Does he visit often?"

"Mmh, depends what you mean." America tilted his head thoughtfully. "He doesn't usually come here to the house. We usually meet up elsewhere when we hang out, like at the beach or an ice rink or somethin'. When we have more time to spend together, we tend to go camping or on road trips and stuff."

"So it's just you in this house?" Romano prodded curiously, "Isn't it kind of lonely, bastard?"

"Well," America answered, not looking at him, "Tony visits sometimes. He's my alien friend. From outer space. He's on a mission right now I guess, but I don't know when he'll be back, so I'm not sure when you can meet him. I also have a whale friend, who's sleeping now, but you can meet later."

"An alien. From outer space." Romano repeated.

"Yep!"

"And a whale."

"Uhuh!"

England raised him, Romano reminded himself. There were bound to be side effects. And living in this huge house alone would be hard on anybody, right, dammit? Hell, sometimes the emptiness of his own house was almost too much for him, too. But America had him now to help keep him sane. They were best friends now. He'd save the poor bastard from himself. Feeling oddly protective, he stepped a little closer to the other nation and squeezed his hand comfortingly. America beamed down at him, and squeezed back, blushing slightly.

Stopping in front of the room next to his, America turned to Romano. "So... I was thinking," he began a little shyly, feeling unaccountably nervous that Romano wouldn't agree to what he was about to suggest. He could feel himself blushing, too, which was weird, 'cause he had no reason to blush, really, but still, he couldn't help it for some reason, "that maybe you could stay in this room. I mean, you don't have to," he added hastily, "you can stay in any room you want, but this room is right next to mine, and, well, it's a pretty nice room, and I thought, y'know, you might like it, and that way if you needed anything or whatever, you know where to find me, 'cause I'm just down the hall, and you could just knock on the wall and I'll hear you. And, well, yeah." He shifted, embarrassed. Okay, so maybe he did have a reason to blush, since obviously he'd lost the ability to speak clearly instead of rambling like some sort of idiot, and _man_ that was kind of embarrassing, but he hoped Romano would say yes anyway. His cheeks and ears felt very warm as he waited anxiously for Romano's answer.

Romano couldn't help but blush, too. The way the idiot was looking at him, all anxious and hopeful and _argh _America was blushing and well, _dammit_ it wasn't that it was kind of adorable or anything, but it was really, really adorable and making him feel all melty inside and he really wasn't sure if he could say no to that face, but he had to be careful, dammit! If he started giving in to America this early in their friendship, who knew where it would end? He had to set boundaries, dammit, or he was in trouble. Besides, he reminded himself, he'd lived with Spain _and_ Feliciano. He was _used_ to cute faces _and_ puppy eyes. He was practically _immune_, dammit. He took a deep breath. "I, I'll have to see it first, bastard."

"Oh! Right." America laughed a little sheepishly, and turned around to fumble with the door, getting it open on the second try. "Here it is, Romano!"

It _was_ a nice room, as it turned out. _Really_ nice, roomy, with a walk-in closet and its own bathroom, which meant he wouldn't have to share. Plus, it was actually pretty close to the kitchen, which was almost directly downstairs. It was furnished, too, in gorgeous, handcarved mahogany, which was a little impressive, though he wouldn't admit it out loud. The rest of decor was a little bland, but as he looked around America urged him to redecorate according to his tastes, since, y'know, they were best friends now, and Romano would probably be spending a lot of time here, and he should have a place of his own where he felt comfortable. A home away from home, and stuff.

"Alright, bastard. This'll do, I guess." Romano nodded, pleased with the room and a little proud of himself for not caving instantly to America's puppy eyes.

"Great!" America relaxed, grinning, and bounced on the balls of his feet. This was great! Romano would be so close! "I'll go get your stuff, then."

In no time at all the luggage was relocated from the truck to Romano's new room (except for the stuff marked 'pasta', which went into the pantry), and they set to work settling Romano in.

"Where do you want your shoes?" America asked, pulling a dark suede wingtip from the case full of shoes to examine, once everything else had been unpacked. He glanced over his shoulder to where Romano was arranging things to his satisfaction in the dresser drawers. "You have an awful lot of shoes, Romano."

"Mm." Romano acknowledged absently as he worked. "Just put them in the closet for now."

America dropped the shoe back into its box inside the case, and moved the whole thing into the walk-in closet. "So why do you have so many shoes? Do you have a shoe fetish, or something?"

"Why do you have so many guns, bastard? Do you have a gun fetish, or something?" Romano retorted drily, closing the drawer and running his hand over the surface of the dresser. This really was a damn nice piece of furniture. He'd probably keep all the furniture in the room, actually, but he was already making plans to redecorate the rest of it.

"What? No! Of course not!" America pouted defensively. Why did people always think that? "I just like guns."

"Then don't ask stupid questions, bastard." Romano ordered absently, crossing his arms and surveying the room thoughtfully. America exited the closet and threw himself across the bed to watch Romano think. The expressions crossing the Italian's face as he mentally redecorated were fascinating. Propping his chin in his hand, he wondered if Romano knew he made hand gestures while he thought. He really needed to learn to interpret those. It was like was some sort of secret Italian sign language, or something. Heh, that would be cool. He'd have to check the manual later to see if Germany knew anything about it.

America watched as Romano narrowed his eyes at the closet, exhaled, and glanced at the window, tapping his fingers on his folded arms. He gestured dismissively, as though shooing away a foolish, persistent thought, and tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling. Hazel eyes roamed the corners of the room, pausing at light fixtures and apparently random spots on the ceiling, as he drew shapes in the air, imagining...America didn't know what, but he was pretty sure Romano was doing it unconsciously. He watched, mesmerized, as Romano lowered his gaze to the window, and spread both his hands, fingers splayed, drawing them downward as though fingerpainting drapes in his mind's eye. He lifted a hand to brush back a strand of hair that'd fallen across his vision, and pressed his knuckles to his mouth, lips pursed in thought. His gaze slid slowly sideways, and he turned his head to regard a corner of the room, moving his hand to cup his chin, gesturing at the spot like he was directing something to be placed there. His face clouded, and he frowned, putting his hands on his hips as he stared at the ceiling again. America admired the way his hair fell around the curve of his ear as he did so. Romano had cute ears, they looked so round and delicate, like little seashells. With the dark strands of hair framing it like that, it kind of looked like a seashell half-submerged in dark, shining waters. Romano's face cleared, and he nodded, huffing in satisfaction, and lowered his eyes to the floor, effectively blocking his ears from sight. He scanned the floor, turning his head this way and that, moving his hands in various shapes as he created and discarded various floor coverings, or conducted a symphony only he could hear, America wasn't sure. Romano tossed his head a bit in an attempt to remove the strand of hair that was once again blocking his sight, but it slid right back in a matter of seconds. After a few more attempted to toss it back, he absently ran a hand through his hair to smooth it into place, undistracted from his mental processes.

America watched, enthralled. If it happened again, maybe he should help Romano smooth it back. Since, you know, it was obviously bothering him. Getting in his way.

America wondered if Romano's hair was as soft as it looked.

Romano seemed awfully far away, all of a sudden.

"You should come check out the bed." He suggested, feeling warm and slightly giddy inside when Romano looked over at him. "Y'know, see how you like the mattress."

"Yeah, okay." Romano agreed, coming over to climb up on the bed. "Move over, idiot." He ordered, smacking America's shoulder with the back of a hand. America grinned and squirmed aside, watching as his best friend sprawled on his back on the covers. "_Oh_." Groaned the Italian, wriggling deeper into the mattress. "_Oh. _Where did you get this mattress, bastard? I thought _my_ bed was comfortable. Nghh." He closed his eyes in bliss, throwing his arms and legs wide. "This is like laying on a _cloud_. Holy _shit_."

"You like it, then?" America asked, happy that Romano was pleased and not so far away anymore. "We can always get another one if you want. Or bring one in from another room. Whatever you prefer."

"No, this is good." Romano affirmed, deep in comfortable-mattress-induced bliss. "Gonna need new bedclothes, though."

"Right now, or tomorrow?"  
"How would you get them right now, bastard? All the stores are closed."

"Dude, this is _America_. Stores are open twenty-four-seven."

"What, all of them?" Romano opened his eyes to stare at America in disbelief.

"Not all of them." America admitted. "But if you know where to go, you can get just about anything, anytime."

"...So you're telling me that if you want to buy sheets at 3 fucking AM, you can just go out and do it?"

"Yep." America answered, "Pretty much."

"And pillows."

"Sheets, pillows, cars, socks, food, televisions, elephants, whatever."

"...Elephants?"

"I bought an elephant once." America explained, squirming closer. "Wanted to see if it would be any good at herding cattle. Turns out, no. Sucked at the rodeo, too. Kept smashing the barrels flat, and the calves outran it easy. He sort of caused a stampede, too. Total bust."

"...Do you still have it?"

"No, this was about, oh...115 years ago, give or take. Ended up using him in show business. Filmed a few silent movies with him, actually. And a couple of 'talkies'. He usually played the elephant."

"Huh." Romano thought about this. "Well, I don't think we'll need an elephant. I'll let you know."

"'Kay."

"This is a damn big bed." Romano observed, rolling around on it. "Actually," he sat up, a little mussed, and leaned back on his arms. "This is a damn big room. Most of the other rooms you showed me weren't this big. Is your room as big as this, bastard?"

"Yup." America sat up too, crossing his legs. "They're the same size. I figured I could switch back and forth when I felt like it. Never actually ended up using this one, though."

Romano snorted. "Only you would think you needed two master bedrooms."

"Seemed like a good idea at the time." America grinned, nudging him. "Besides, it came in handy, didn't it?"

"...Idiot." Romano blushed, turning away to look at the room. "This is going to need a lot of work." He decided. "We're going to have to _completely_ redecorate, bastard."

"Anything you want, Romano." America agreed. "I want you to be happy here."

"W-we're going to have to repaint." Romano continued as if he hadn't heard, ignoring the way his blush deepened. "And get some new drapes. I like the wood flooring, but I'm thinking a rug or throw would be good, too. Something that won't cover it up, but bring it out. And something for the walls. And new light fixtures. The furniture is good, but it'll have to be rearranged." He frowned thoughtfully at the room, making a mental list of everything they'd need.

"I can do that right now if you want." America offered, uncrossing his legs and shifting to sit on the edge of the bed, poised to get up. "You can tell me where you want it moved and I'll move it. Won't take long."

"You ca-? Oh. Right." Of course he could. Romano shook his head. "That's alright, bastard. Wouldn't make sense to rearrange things until the room is painted, otherwise you'll have to move it twice."

"I don't mind." America shrugged. "It's not a problem. I can move it as many times as you like. Besides, wouldn't you rather have it set up the way you want until we get around to the rest? That way you can see if you like the way it looks, or if you want it set up differently."

Romano had to admit he had a point. "...Alright. Sounds good."

"'Kay!" America bounced to his feet. "What goes where?"

"Uhh," Romano frowned, looking around. He pointed. "There. The armoire should go over there." Easily, without any apparent effort, America moved the immense armoire closer to the window as directed. Romano tried not to be impressed, but it was difficult. That thing had to weigh close to 500 pounds, and America had carried it as easily as he would a slip of paper. He'd known the bastard was strong. He'd _known_ it. _Everybody_ did. But somehow knowing it and seeing it right in front of him was... different. He bit his lip. "Now that." He pointed to a smaller side table. "Over there."

"Kay."

"And the uh, the dresser, there." _Fuck_. With all the stuff he'd put in it, the dresser had to be even heavier than the armoire. The bastard hadn't even... he swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.

"Now what?" America stood, awaiting instruction.

"Um...uh..." Gesturing wordlessly, he directed America through the rearrangement of several more pieces of furniture.

Once everything except the bed had been shifted or moved, America stood in the center of the room, hands on his hips, and looked around him. "All good?"

"Uh..." Said Romano, and glanced around the room. Everything _was_ pretty much where he wanted it, but... "Move the armoire again."

"Okay." America shrugged, lifting it. "Where?"

"There." Romano said, pointing to the other side of the room. "Good. Now the dresser."

"'Kay."

"Over there. No, wait, d-don't put it down. Uh... o-over there. Instead."

"Here?"

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

"Nn." America set it down. "O-on second thought, put it back. Over there." He pointed to where he'd originally had it moved.

"Okay. All good?"

"M-move the armoire back, too."

America set it in place, dusting off his hands. "Anything else?"

Romano cast around for something else, anything else he could move. _Oh_. "Th-the bed. Move the bed, bastard."

"'Kay." America crossed over to the bed, reaching under it with one arm. Romano gripped the covers as America hefted the _entire fucking bed_ over his head with one hand. It was a damn good thing the ceilings were so high, he thought dazedly, above the blood rushing in his ears. He stared, wide-eyed, down at the floor now eight feet below him.

"-mano? Romano?" He leaned a little farther to see America looking up at him, trying to get his attention. "Where do you want it?"

"What?"

"The bed." America reminded him patiently. "Where do you want me to move it?" Romano blinked at him for a moment, uncomprehending.

"Oh." He said finally, a little shakily. "Uh. Over there. By the wall." He pulled his legs up onto the bed as it moved, and yelped a little when America set it down.

"That good?" America asked, standing next to it.

"Mm." He answered, slightly breathless.

America glanced at him, and frowned. "Hey, you okay? You look a little shaken up." He leaned down, laying a concerned hand on the Italian's knee and reaching out to lightly touch his cheek. "Was it the bed? I'm sorry, I should have let you get off first."

"I, I'm fine." Romano defended, pulling away. "I, I'm just, I'm hungry. I, I didn't eat much."

"Oh." America smiled, relieved, and stood, brushing off his slacks. "Okay. Well, c'mon then. The basket Amata sent is in the kitchen. We've hardly touched it. I'm sure you'll find something in there you like, Romano." He held out a hand to help Romano up.

"'Kay." Romano took his hand, avoiding his gaze, and allowed himself to be led out of the room.

* * *

_AN: *hangs head in shame* __I'll have some author's notes on America's house in the next chapter. Hopefully it won't be too terribly long before I update again. Thank you guys so much for your patience! It's been tough not to be able to write for this story. _

_I was in a tornado last week, which was interesting. I've been near tornadoes before, but not **in**_ _one_ _until now._ _And as I write that I realise I've now been in a tornado, several monsoons, typhoons, hurricanes, blizzards, 2 tsunamis, a flood, multiple earthquakes, several sandstorms, and a volcanic eruption. My life seems pretty eventful when I think about it. _


	35. Getting to Know You

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia!**

_I should really sit on this a while longer and tighten and polish it up, but I'm so excited to be writing again I just can't wait. So here! Take THAT!_

* * *

Romano began to feel a little steadier once they were in the kitchen. America took the basket from the counter, pulling out a manila file for some reason, which he put aside before emptying the rest of the contents onto the counter near the stove. Basket empty, Romano set him the task of heating the oven while he himself separated the things that needed to be heated from those that didn't. And there was plenty of food to sort. Amata, in her endless wisdom, had sent along enough to feed an army. Either she'd learned some things about America during their correspondence, or (perhaps more likely) she was working off the assumption that every young male was a bottomless pit that required three square meals in one sitting to survive.

He frowned, though, when he opened the container of gnocchi. "_Ugh._" _Potato_ gnocchi_. _Revolted, he held the container away from him like a dead thing.

"What's wrong?" America glanced back from his task watching the microwave timer (two-and-a-half minutes left 'til the oven was ready).

"_Gnocchi con il sugo di pomodoro._" His lip curled, disgusted. "Why would she send this? She _knows_ I hate potatoes. Such a fucking waste of good tomato sauce." He looked around for a garbage can.

"Is that 'nookie' spelled like 'gin-oh-chee'?" America asked interestedly, craning his neck to see the container.

"That's '_gnocchi'_, and yes. Why?"

"Then it's probably for me." America came over to peer into the container, and took the lid from Romano's other hand. "Yep." He flipped it over, displaying the 'Alfred' written on it in marker. Romano handed the container off with a grunt, glad to be rid of the thing. "She said I might like it, since I eat lots of French fries and stuff."

"Oh." Said Romano, slightly mollified now that he knew Amata hadn't been trying to poison him. "I guess that's okay. Just...keep it away from me." He turned to the last of the food, which turned out to be a container of tomato-stuffed rigatoni, with roast tomatoes and thick, rich tomato sauce, and another of tomato salad (with extra tomatoes. _Four kinds_.), and she was completely forgiven. Amata was an _angel_.

"Alright." He said, carrying the rigatoni over to the counter where the other things that needed to be heated sat. "Put these in casserole pans and put them in the oven, then set the timer for ten minutes. I'll set the table and get the rest ready."

"'Kay. How many do I need?" America asked, digging in the cupboard.

"Four should be plenty." Romano answered, rifling through the cupboards and drawers to locate America's tableware. He found the dishes and silverware fairly easily, and with a little exploration discovered a tablecloth, too.

"What about the gnocchi?" America wondered, sliding the pans into the oven. "Should I put that in a casserole dish, too?"

"_That_ you can microwave." Romano answered, turning up his nose in disdain.

"Really? Sweet!"

Well, the table was ready, and the food looked good. A glance at the timer showed they had another few minutes before the rest of the meal was warm. Something was missing, though.

Oh, right. He went into the pantry and dug through his luggage, recovering a bottle of wine, and reentered the kitchen to rifle through the drawers for a bottle opener.

"I had that in the pantry?" America asked in surprise, removing the hot dishes from the oven.

"No, bastard. _I_ had that in the pantry." Romano answered, plucking a slice of tomato from the salad bowl to nibble while he opened the bottle. "I brought it with me so I'd have something to drink."

America raised his eyebrows, pulling off his oven mitts. "Y'know, I do have a wine cellar."

"You do? I thought you didn't drink alchohol."

"I don't, but I still have a wine cellar. I'll show you later if you'd like."

"...What do you keep in it?"

"Wine and spirits, mostly. Y'know, stuff that goes in wine cellars. I'll show you later." America reiterated, poking tentatively at one of the casserole pans. "I don't go down there much, it's mostly for guests. Is this ready to eat?"

"Yeah, sure. Bring it to the table and we can get started."

"Yay!"

America still ate like a starved animal, but at least he managed to chew with his mouth closed and swallow before trying to speak, Romano had to give him that. Besides, he was pretty damn hungry himself. They ate in relative silence for a while, except for the occasional request to pass a dish or expressions of gustatorial pleasure. Romano kept the tomato rigatoni to himself, refusing to share ("You have your damn _gnocchi_, bastard. This is _mine._"). He allowed America to try a little of the tomato salad, though, which he liked, and thought would go great on hamburgers- nearly sending the Italian into an apoplectic fit.

A few helpings later, the edge had been taken off Romano's hunger, and he was able to turn his mind to other things as he ate.

"You never explained what you were doing at Nino's, bastard." He remembered, curiousity peaked in the wake of a full stomach.

"Oh," America nodded, and swallowed his mouthful, "right. I was picking up some stuff! Remember I told you Nino said he had something for us whenever one of us stopped by next? He sent..." He frowned, and patted his pockets, "well, he gave me an envelope with some pictures in it I guess, but I forget where I put it...um," He twisted in his seat, looking around the kitchen as if it might be laying on a counter somewhere, "he said not to open them until we were both...around...where the heck did I put it?" Romano raised an eyebrow, watching as America struggled to remember what he'd done with Nino's envelope.

"Did he say what kind of pictures they were, idiot?"

"Oh, yeah!" America turned back to him with a smile. "They were of us!"

Romano's brows furrowed. "Us? You and me, you mean?"

"Yep! I guess he took pictures of our last visit. I totally didn't see him do it though, so I don't- Ah!" He snapped his fingers. "I put it in the inside pocket of my jacket! Did you notice it while you were wearing it?"

Romano thought back, although he didn't really need to. He hadn't noticed anything. He didn't even know the bomber _had_ inside pockets, although he probably could have guessed. "...No. I left your jacket back in my room, though, so we'll have to check it later."

America nodded again. Sounded good to him. "I guess photography is Nino's hobby, which is pretty neat. He sent me a couple of landscape shots he took of the area Amata's from, in, uh..."

"Sorrento." Romano supplied, nodding. "Nh. Nino mostly does landscapes. He doesn't usually shoot people. I wonder when he took pictures of us. I didn't notice him do it."

"I know, right? He's a camera ninja." America grinned, licking some sauce off his chin. "I'm seriously curious what pictures he took. I'm pretty sure he didn't take any while I was changing."

Romano snorted. "He's a sneaky bastard, but he wouldn't do that. It was probably either when we came in and were talking to Amata, or when we left."

"Well, we'll find out soon." America leaned across the table to grab a breadstick, which he ate in two bites before continuing, "I'm thinking of getting him a new camera. The one he uses is analog, and so I thought maybe I'd get him a digital one he can use, too, to thank him for all the stuff he's done to help me out."

"Nothing wrong with analog, bastard." Romano frowned, defending the medium. "It works, and he likes it. He likes processing the film himself. Besides, it's hard to find a digital camera that produces the same quality shots as his old camera."

"That's true, but there are some that are really good. I don't mean that he should get rid of his old camera, though," America agreed, explaining, "I'm just thinking it might be nice for him to have a digital one to experiment with, too. Easier for him to transfer the pictures to the computer, and stuff. The pictures he sent me are pretty amazing. If you don't think he'd like it, though, I'll think of something else."

"...He probably would, if you explain it like that." Romano allowed, after a moment's reflection.

"Okay!" America smiled, using another breadstick to wipe the remnants of sauce off of his plate, "Now I just have to think of something for Amata."

"Good luck with that, bastard."

"Does she have any hobbies, that you know of?" America wondered. "Special interests? Things she likes to do?"

"I thought she wrote you letters, idiot. You don't read them?"

"Well, yeah, but it's only been a couple of weeks, and she doesn't write nearly as often as Nino. He writes almost every day. I've gotten three letters from her, which were really long and interesting, but they were mostly about you, or her family. She didn't say much about her personal interests, like, things she likes to do in her spare time."

Romano sighed, leaning on the table. "Matchmaking. That's what she likes to do."

"Hmm." America paused, tilting his head, and blinked at the ceiling. "I'm...I don't really know anything about matchmaking. How does she do it? Like, what does it entail?"

"Watching people." Romano gestured expressively. "Poking your nose into other peoples' business. Waylaying innocent people with advice and suggestions and help and food and confusing the hell out of them 'til they do what she wants and end up together."

"Hm." America chewed thoughtfully. "Okay. Does she have a good pair of binoculars?"

Romano's eyebrows rose at the thought. Ha, Amata with binoculars. No-one in the city would be safe. "I'm sure she'd love that." He admitted, lips quirking up as he sipped his wine. Why the hell not. It'd keep the place on its toes.

"Sweet." America grinned, happy to have his thank-yous sorted out. "Now we just gotta get your room all fixed up. You have it all planned out, yet?"

"Most of it." Romano nodded, nibbling thoughtfully on a breadstick. "I'm going to need a place to put shoes. I'm thinking a shoe cabinet in the closet. Something big. I'd like it to match the rest of the furniture, though, too."

"Well, I'll have to check," America said, reaching for the last of the potato gnocchi. Amata had been right, it was _delicious._ He didn't know why Romano was so dead set against it. "but I'm pretty sure I still have some seasoned mahogany in the shed. It'd take a while, but I could build a shoe cabinet to match, sure."

Romano rolled his eyes. "_No_, bastard, I want to get it from the same place as you got the rest of it. I want it to look _good_."

America rolled his eyes right back. "Romano, _I'm_ where I got the rest of it. I made it." He gestured to the table and chairs they were using. "This, too."

"The hell you did." Romano crossed his arms, disbelieving. "This is quality shit."

"Yes, yes it is." America agreed. "I made it."

"_You_ did."

"_I _did. Cut down the trees, seasoned the wood, cut and planed and joined and carved it, and smoothed, finished and varnished every last piece in here." America explained slowly. "Along with the rest of the house. I told you before, remember?"

Romano glanced around the room, and back at America, brows furrowed. "_You_ built this house."

Dropping his fork, America held up his hands, fingers splayed. "These two hands."

"But this is a nice house." He said, bewildered.

"Yep, I built it. Bottom to top. I did tell you I built my house before." America reminded him. "On the phone, remember?"

"Well, yeah, but I thought you meant you _had_ it built." Romano argued. "By like, contractors and stuff. Y'know, _professionals_."

"No, _I_ did it. Why is it so hard to believe that I built it?" America wondered, a little insulted. "It's not that unusual. Sweden built _his_ house."

"Sweden's built a lot of people's houses." Romano agreed. "But Sweden's a handy guy. He knows how to build shit."

"Yeah, well, Sweden was around when I was a kid, and taught me how to build shit too." America toyed with his food, frowning. "And I'm a handy guy." He added, sulking a little. "I'm super handy."

Romano looked at the chair he sat on, and ran his fingers hesitantly over it, tracing the carvings. "..._You_ built this?"

"_Yes._"

"Oh."

"Yeah." America said, not looking at him. "'_Oh_.'"

"That's...pretty amazing." Romano admitted.

And just like that, America perked up again, all insult forgiven. "Yep!"

"So...you, uh...think you could build a shoe cabinet, then?"

"Yep." America nodded, polishing off his plate and getting up to retrieve another soda from the 'fridge. "After this we can go back up to your room and you can show me what you want, and I'll see what I need to get it done."

"Okay." Romano nodded, reaching for his wine. "That sounds good. You finished there?"

America looked down at his empty plate. "Yeah. I don't think there's anything left to eat, anyway." He peered hopefully into the surrounding bowls and dishes, finding them all equally empty. "Yeah, all gone. I guess I'm done."

"Alright." Romano put down his glass and stood, gathering their empty plates. "I'll wash, you dry. Got it bastard?"

"That's okay, Romano! I'll just put everything in the dishwasher." America stood too, taking the dishes from Romano and carrying them over to the the dishwasher, which he kicked open and began to load. Romano followed to watch. America had a dishwashing machine, huh? That was...convenient. Expensive, probably, what with all the water it most likely used, but still.

"Will it actually get them clean?" He wondered, leaning over America's shoulder where the other knelt to put the dishes away.

"Yep, it should. Hand me those casserole pans." America took them from Romano, and continued. "On the older models you used to have to wash the junk off or let 'em soak first if they were really dirty, so you kinda ended up washing the dishes before you washed the dishes." Romano nodded. That was one of the reasons he and his brother had never bothered to get one. "But this is a newer model, so you can just put the dishes right in and they get clean. Plus," He closed the door and pointed to an icon on the side, "this is an energy-saving model, which is supposed to use less energy and water than handwashing. I don't know if that's true, though." He admitted, pressing some buttons and starting up the machine. "It doesn't really matter, 'cause I'd use it anyway. I _hate_ washing dishes."

Romano snorted, nudging the blond with his knee. "Lazy bastard."

"Haha! I'm not lazy." America grinned up at him. "I just have better things to do with my time." He got up, brushing off his hands. "Speaking of which, gimme a minute to grab my stuff, and let's get your shoe cabinet planned, huh?"

"Yeah, okay."

"Cool. Meetcha in the closet, then!"

* * *

Romano watched, fascinated, as America measured for his shoe cabinet. The bastard actually seemed to know what he was doing. He'd listened carefully as Romano explained what he wanted, nodded, pulled out his measuring tape (which had a laser function, for some reason) and a grease pencil, and set to work. Measure, fire laser, make a mark. Measure, fire laser, make a mark. No stupid comments or questions or jokes or anything. This was a side of America he hadn't seen before. No, wait- he had, hadn't he? Back in the diner, when he'd surprised Romano with his seriousness in business matters. It seemed like the younger nation just kept surprising him. He would never have guessed the silly, boisterous blond could do...well, something like this. Sure, he knew America could work with engines and that sort of thing, but that was _easy_. Every nation picked it up sooner or later. You _had_ to. When you were on the battlefield and the enemy was coming and your tank or truck or whatever wouldn't start, you learned your way around an engine pretty damn fast; in order to fight back or make a quick escape (and no-one made vehicles as fast as his and Feliciano's). Engines were a piece of cake.

But this sort of thing, furniture and houses and stuff, stuff that was actually _useful_; that took time and skill and hard work and _concentration_ both to learn and to make. It took _years_ to learn to build this sort of thing, let alone build it _well_. He wouldn't have expected America to have the attention span necessary to do either, but the furniture outside told a different story. That stuff was _beautiful_.

How much did he know about America, really? They'd been talking on the phone an awful lot lately, and he knew from their phone conversations that America liked Saturday morning cartoons, and that he had pajamas with some of the characters on them; and he knew that America liked snow but hated that it was so cold, and that he liked all flavours of ice cream except pistachio because it 'tasted weird with toppings on it', that he'd once had a pet ox named 'Blue' that went everywhere with him, and had cried for _months_ when it died, that he loved cars and motorcycles and stuff but sometimes missed riding horses to get around. So he knew all sorts of random stuff; but they hadn't really talked about anything in _particular_.

He was beginning to realise that maybe there was a lot more to America than he'd ever imagined. Decisions and behaviour that a while ago he would probably have dismissed as random stupidity from another stupid airhead were turning out to have thought and reasons behind them (even if they were occasionally _stupid_ ones, they were still reasons, which was more than he'd have expected before he'd started getting to know the bastard).

Speaking of which...

"What's the laser for, bastard?" He wondered, watching the nation fire it off again.

"It's a level." America answered absently, making another mark on the wall of the closet. "Helps me know if things are even."

"I know what a level is, bastard." Romano defended, frowning. He'd used levels before- spirit levels and plumb lines, while drawing or sculpting or painting, he knew what they were for and how to use them, but he'd never seen a _laser_ level before. Unconsciously, he moved closer to watch America work with heightened interest (honestly, he wouldn't have been surprised if America had just attached a laser to it just to have a laser on it, he seemed to want lasers on _everything_). He could see the benefits of a laser as a level, though. For one thing, light wouldn't be affected by temperature in the same way as the liquid in a spirit level would, or the string used in a plumb line, so it would be more accurate; so that made sense, sort of, "But, why do you need one for this? Shouldn't everything already be straight and even? You built it, right?"

America glanced between two of the marks, and pulled the tape across the span from the door to the wall. "Mhm. Sometimes walls and floors shift over time." He explained as he worked. "It's good to check if everything's still straight, in case you need to make adjustments to the measurements. If it's shifted and you don't compensate, what you build might not fit."

"Oh." Romano looked at the wall, and the floor. Looked straight to him. "So, are they? Straight?"

"Everything's straight so far." America replied, pressing the base of the measure against the inside of the doorframe with one hand, and took a step back. "Here, hold this here for me."

Romano stepped in to do as he was bid.

"Ah, here." America moved forward, putting his hand over Romano's to adjust the placement of the measure, moving it up slightly against the frame, and suddenly Romano was simultaneously _very aware_ of the taller nation's heat at his back, and the sensation of America's hand on his, firm and sure, their fingers tangled together. "Keep it right here. Make sure you hold it steady, okay?"

Romano just nodded, not trusting his voice to be steady at all.

"Good." America released his hand and leaned in to take the end of the tape, which meant his chest (broad and warm and even firmer than his hand) was briefly pressed against Romano's back and shoulders, which meant Romano briefly couldn't breathe; until America stepped away, pulling the tape down to the far end of the closet. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly, trying to calm his racing heartbeat.

"Okay, now, fire the laser." America ordered from the other side of the closet. Still a little disoriented, Romano looked at the measure in his hand, and pressed the helpfully labelled 'laser level' button with his thumb, careful not to move the measure from its place. "Thanks. Now tell me what it says."

Romano blinked, and stared at the object he held. What it said? It wasn't saying anything to him. Was it supposed to talk? "What what says, bastard?"

"Oh, sorry. There should be a digital readout on the side, displaying some numbers. Read those off to me."

"Uh...two-hundred and eighty-eight point two."

"'Kay, thanks." America paused to make a mark, and then knelt down. "Now, put it against the base of the wall. Same thing, keep it flush against the inside of the doorframe."

Romano obeyed, crouching down and pressing the measure carefully against the inside of the doorframe, resting it on the floor.

"Good. Hit the laser." He did. "Great, thanks. What does the display say?"

"Same as before, bastard. Two-hundred and eighty eight point two."

"Great." America made another mark. After a few more measurements America had Romano bring the tape measure to him at the end of the closet, after which Romano excused himself to get a drink, still feeling very off-balance and unsettled, and badly in need of something rather stronger than the water he got from the sink in the bathroom attached to his room. He'd have to get America to put in a minibar. Heaven knew the damn room was big enough for one. And he was pretty sure he was going to need it.

He exited the bathroom just as America was exiting the closet, chewing on the end of his pencil, looking thoughtful. "Hey Romano," He said casually, "c'mere for sex."

"W-what?" Romano took a step back, shaken. America couldn't _possibly_ have said what he thought he said, right?

America took the pencil out of his mouth. "C'mere for a sec," he repeated, and gestured for Romano to follow him into the closet, "I wanted to ask you something."

Mentally cursing Feliciano and his ridiculous 'advice' for messing with his head, Romano moved to the door of the closet, and peered in to see America staring at the space where his cabinet would be, toying with his pencil. He looked over and gestured at the wall. "I have enough mahogany to build what you asked for, but I was thinking; would you like it to move, too?"

"What do you mean 'move', bastard? Like, on wheels?" Romano asked from the safety of the doorway.

"I mean, the shelves." America elaborated. "I can make it so they pull out, if you want- like drawers, or rotate- y'know what, why don't I sketch it out for you so you can see what I mean."

Romano backed rapidly up as America exited the closet once more, waving him over to the bed, where he sat and pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket, smoothing it out on his knee. He began to sketch the shoe cabinet on it with his pencil. Romano followed cautiously and stopped a little ways away, going up on tiptoes to peer at the sketch. "See, I can make it so they pull out like drawers, and that way you could probably fit 3 extra pairs of shoes in each shelf, cubby— whatever you want to call it. I could also make sort of like a rotating rack if you'd prefer. That would store about the same number of shoes as the drawers." Romano leaned a little closer, tantalized. "I can make it so you can slide the sections around, too," America continued, sketching quickly, "like a slide puzzle, so you can rearrange the look whenever you want. I can even automate it, so you can use a remote control to move things around or open to the shelf you want, so you don't have to dig around. I fact, you could use the remote from outside the closet so that the shoes you want would be ready when you walked in."

"...You can do that?"

"Yeah, no problem." America affirmed. "It'll take a little longer to build, but it's not hard to do."

Romano stared at America, unable to think properly in the face of all this unexpected competence. "C-can I think about it?"

America nodded, handing him the paper. "Sure, take your time. No rush. Actually, no matter what you decide it's gonna take a couple of weeks to build, so it won't be done in time for you to use it this visit. What do you want to do with your shoes in the meantime?"

"They'll be okay in the case for now." Romano answered, perusing the rough sketch and considering the possibilities. Well, if America could do all this, then he could get a lot more creative with his design. It'd been a while since he'd designed anything, but he was feeling ...inspired. He sat on the bed, holding out his hand. "Hm. Give me that pencil, bastard."

America passed it to him, watching curiously as Romano flipped the paper over and began to draw. He scooted closer, leaning over Romano's shoulder to see what he was working on. The Italian's fingers flew across the paper. His brows furrowed. "You have those measurements, bastard?" Wordlessly, America took the scrap of paper he'd written them on from his shirt pocket and handed it to Romano, who took it without looking up, scanned it over, and handed it back with a grunt of thanks, turning his attention back to the paper in his hand. America found himself once again mesmerized, as an extremely detailed diagram began to come to life under Romano's pencil with a speed that was a little unbelievable.

Where had Romano learned to draw like that? It was incredible; more art than a diagram, really. And the more Romano drew the more realistic it became, simple strokes of the pencil giving it shape and shadow and depth and texture, until he felt like he could almost reach out and feel the grain of the wood under his fingertips.

Was there _anything_ Romano couldn't do with his hands? He felt the urge to reach out and run his fingers along Romano's, long and agile and expressive and graceful, to take those amazing hands in his and learn their secrets. Romano was drawing though, and probably wouldn't want to be disturbed while he was working. Maybe later.

Romano had such slim wrists, too. Slim and flexible and delicate- not delicate like, fragile, just...very fine-boned. They moved smoothly, as Romano drew or gestured or lifted his hand to brush his hair back. Every movement Romano made was that way; smooth, flowing, effortless, with sinuous, catlike grace. The quirk of an eyebrow, the blink of an eye, the way he walked, the way he stood, even when he was still, or asleep- Romano was beautiful to watch. America didn't think he could ever get tired of watching Romano...just _be_.

He tilted his head a little to observe Romano's face, focused so intently on his drawing. Romano's eyes had that same sharp look they got when Romano was interested in something; but it was softened, distant, like his mind's eye was focused inward, drawing forth the image taking shape under those skillful fingers. Romano's brows, dark and elegantly arched, were furrowed in concentration, and America's eyes travelled down, noting equally dark lashes fanning gracefully across lowered eyelids, the fine slope and turn of Romano's nose (his lips quirked up in an unconscious smile. Aw, was there any part of Romano that wasn't adorable? He was pretty sure there wasn't), the soft curve of his lips, turned down in a small frown of concentration... America's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He wanted to see Romano smile. _Really_ smile, not just the slight upturn of the corners of his mouth that occurred when Romano was amused or genuinely relaxed and contented, although that was wonderful, too; but a real, 'so happy I just can't contain it' smile, overflowing from Romano's heart and into his eyes and lips and lighting up every part of him. He wanted to see Romano happy, really, truly happy. He wanted to make Romano happy, somehow. Genuinely.

He wasn't sure how, though. Maybe buy him shoes? Romano seemed to like shoes. But America had to admit that he didn't know too much about shoes, not fashion-wise, anyway. Maybe he could...he wasn't sure. Get in touch with his East Coast? Though, Romano had a lot of shoes already, and they didn't seem to make him happy, not the kind of happy he wanted for Romano.

He'd have to think about it.

In the meantime, Romano seemed to be enjoying drawing, and he wanted to watch. It looked like he was almost done, too- he was just making notations in the margins around the cabinet. He rested his chin on Romano's shoulder to watch more comfortably. "Can I- "

"Wah!" Romano flailed in surprise and alarm, and fell off the bed with a thud. America almost lost his balance and followed, but managed to catch himself in time.

"Ahhhhhh shit!" He'd hit his head when he'd hit the floor, and it throbbed sharply, pain temporarily overwhelming all other concerns. Romano curled up into a ball, covering the injury with both hands, and whimpered.

"Romano!" America scrambled off the bed to kneel over him in concern, "Romano, are you okay?"

"_Shiiiiiiiit_." Romano moaned, tears leaking from eyes screwed shut against the pain. "Dammit, dammit, dammit!"

"Are you hurt? Let me see!" America reached for him, only to have his hands slapped away.

"Don't touch me! This is your fault, dammit!" Romano lashed out, voice tight. "I, y, you-"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to surprise you," America explained, reaching for him again, "I just wanted to see better! I didn't mean to freak you out." He helped Romano sit up, wrapping an arm around his waist. "C'mon, lemme see." He coaxed, moving Romano's hands aside to gently probe his scalp. Romano winced, another whimper escaping him, and America grimaced in sympathy. "Ouch, you got a nasty bump there. I'm sorry, Romano."

"I-it's your fault, idiot." Romano sniffled, wiping at his tears. "If you h-hadn't been stupid I wouldn't have f-fallen, dammit."

"I know, I'm sorry." America soothed, pulling him closer, and gently petting his hair. "I just wanted to see. You're a really good artist, Romano. I didn't mean to surprise you."

"...Jerk." Romano buried his face in America's collar, muttering. "Y-you're so stupid. I got hurt because of you, idiot. It hurts. Stupid."

America chuckled, squeezing Romano tight and nuzzling the side of his head. "Want me to kiss it better?" He teased.

Romano pressed closer, face burning, and hit the idiot on the chest with a closed fist. "...Idiot."

America laughed. "We should probably put an ice pack on it though. You want some ice cream, too, Romano? Ice cream always makes me feel better when I'm hurt."

"Yes." Answered Romano, tears almost dry by now, mostly soaked up in America's shirt. Ice cream sounded good. Sure, they'd just eaten not long ago, but there was _always_ room for ice cream or gelato. He pulled back, wiping his eyes. "But it better be good, bastard. I don't want any hamburger-flavoured shit, alright?"

America laughed again. "Is vanilla alright?"

"Nn." Romano nodded. "It'll do, bastard."

"Alright." Grinning fondly, America scooped Romano up and stood, causing the Italian to cling tightly to him in surprise at the sudden elevation. Before Romano could properly register the change, though, America deposited him gently on the bed. "You just rest there for now, okay?" He instructed, brushing a lock of hair out of Romano's eyes, "I'll be right back."

"O-okay." Romano swallowed, tongue-tied and shaken, face growing hot. America smiled down at him, and caressed his cheek briefly, before turning and leaving the room.

Listening to the receding footsteps, Romano exhaled shakily, and covered his face with his hands. He had to stop this. America was a friend. His _best friend._ He couldn't keep getting all flustered and, and, ..._reacting _like this everytime the idiot got near him. America was just being friendly. It didn't _mean_ anything. They were friends. In Italy it wasn't uncommon for friends to kiss and hug and hold hands and all that shit. It was what friends _did, _especially close friends, and he and America were _best_ friends, so he had to man up. The sooner he got over this stupid crush, well, not really a crush but almost-maybe a crush, a proto-crush really, barely even a crushlet, the better. He wasn't going to be like Feliciano, pining after his friend for fucking _ever_, especially since this was a totally different situation and America was _just being friendly_, unlike the potato bastard who was too much of a moron to realise he was head-over-heels for his stupid little brother for practically a century.

Romano's fingers brushed his cheek where America had touched him. Friends. Friends, friends, they were friends. _Best_ friends. He could do this. He took a deep breath, and rubbed his face.

They were friends.

Breathe.

Friends was good. Friends was _safe_. America _needed_ him. As a friend.

It was okay.

He breathed out, calm. _Friends_. He was America's best friend. America was his best friend. He relaxed, feeling his blush recede. He could do this.

They were friends.

"Here we go," America returned carrying both a cone and a bowl of ice cream, and an ice pack, "got an ice pack, and some ice cream for both of us." He paused, looking at the stuff he held. "Hm. Here, take this," he handed Romano the bowl, "and, uh...this," he gave him the cone to hold, and climbed onto the bed next to Romano. He leaned close, prodding gingerly at the place where Romano had been hurt, "I'm gonna have to hold this thing on for you," he said, pressing the icepack to the bump, "'cause you won't be able to eat your ice cream and hold this on at the same time. I got a cone for myself, though, so I'll have a hand free." He held out his hand for the ice cream cone, and settled back, smiling in satisfaction. "There. All good!"

"Y-your arm's going to get tired, bastard." Romano said, heart pounding a little. Not crushing. He just wasn't used to all this touching and attention, that's all. "I, I don't need the ice pack."

"Sure you do." America contradicted, licking his cone. "I don't mind holding it, Romano. It'll heal faster if we put ice on it."

"But this feels awkward," Romano protested. "I won't be able to move my head or anything anyway if you do that. And it's embarrassing." He confessed, not-quite-pouting.

America looked at him, pursing his lips in thought. "You're right," he decided, "it is a little awkward." Removing the ice pack, he shifted back onto the bed, so he was leaning back against the headboard. "Here, c'mere." He patted the bed between his outstretched legs. "Come sit here, instead."

"H-how's that supposed to help, bastard?"

"This way you can lean back on me, and it'll be easier to hold the ice pack on. That way you can eat your ice cream more comfortably." America explained helpfully. "You won't have to hold your head straight."

Romano bit his lip, considering. America was right, it would be easier that way, and more comfortable- at least, physically. And they _were_ friends, so it was okay. "...Okay." Giving America his bowl to hold, he crawled over the idiot's ridiculously long legs, settling inbetween them, and relaxed gingerly back against the taller nation. America handed him his ice cream, and pressed the ice pack to his aching scalp, and Romano tried to relax.

"Better?" Asked America.

"Nn." Romano grunted, not really trusting himself to speak. He focused his attention on his ice cream, which was sweet and creamy and rich, and soothingly cold on his throat, which was a bit sore from having been crying earlier. Slowly he began to relax, tension seeping from his frame, and he calmed, soothed by the coolness of the ice on his injury and the ice cream, the softness of the mattress and the warmth and firm support of the nation at his back. This was actually really comfortable. It was...nice. He could do this, this whole closeness thing. It was _allowed_. They were friends. He melted back against America, moulding himself to the nation's frame, and shifted to tangle their legs together. America made a happy little humming sound, and Romano smiled, heart warming.

He could get used to this.

* * *

_AN: ...They completely forgot about the pictures. Man, these guys can't focus. That's okay, they'll remember them later._

_Okay. Some things! First. You don't usually stuff rigatoni. Amata just really loves Romano. My mom has that tape measure, btw. Very handy. All tools should have lasers on them._

_Okay. America's house... from when it appears in the background of the comics, and also the partial floorplan showed in one of the strips, I get the impression that it's a colonial-style mansion. Himaruya mentioned in some of his notes that America built his house and was heavily influenced by Sweden's designs and style of dwellings. _

_He can fit a whale in his living room. And have tons of room left over. That's a big room. _

_It also always looks very empty in the strips, despite the furnishings. And America complains when he's younger, that the house is too big and empty and lonely, since he's the only one there. _

_Now, since he's never shown in a house as Chibi!America (he always is shown living in the wilderness, in bushes and fields), but does have one when he's a bit older, about 6-12ish, and England didn't build it for him, I imagine England sort of forgot that maybe America might need a house to live in, in his usual neglectful approach to parenting; and Sweden came along after a while and realised that the poor kid needed a house, and showed him how to build one, which Sweden tends to do. He also tends to build ridiculously huge houses. In support of this several of our founding fathers had similar mansions around the same time, so I've based some of the features and designs that might come up in future chapters (like the wine cellar) after theirs._

_Also, Europeans were/are very 'status'-conscious, so I imagine any of the other nations would have encouraged America to make his house as big as he could, in respect to his 'status' as a nation personification, and America pretty much did everything he was told when he was a baby, unless he felt it was morally wrong (like when chibiAmerica chided England for beating on Spain), so he'd just have went along with it. Uh...there are other reasons, too, but I'm hoping to add them into the story, so I don't want to spoil things._

_Analog cameras are awesome. _

_Oh! Washers and dryers. I was going to go a different direction with that, but then I did some research just to be sure (had to do a **lot** to find multiple sources of the information I was looking for), and found out that less than 13% of the households in Italy have washers/dryers/dishwashers, and less than 30% have 'fridges. That last one I find difficult to believe, but I really can't say for sure. Although, most studies did say that the percentage of all those appliances is rapidly increasing, due to recent companies producing the washers/dryers/dishwashers/ etc in Italy at a very low cost, more easily affordable to the average household. Which is neat. I did learn some very interesting things about how they do laundry in South Italy, because apparently it's practically an art form. That might come up when we return to Italy._

_Ah! I've gotten some more fanart, which I will link later in my profile. It might be a day or so, because I have work soon now that the weekend is over, but in the meantime you can always check the AmericaxRomano deviantart link also listed in my profile, because some of them are posted there. Uhm...if any of you can draw, we definitely need more fanart of these two, not least so we can get more AMVs made. *coughcough*_

_I think that's all! That's a ridiculously long author's note, but I'm excited to be writing again. I apologise for any mistakes in this chapter due to overeagerness to post. _


	36. Ice it, Pin it, Claim it, Fix it!

**Hetalia: I don't own it. **

_I...argh. I wanted to make this chapter a whole lot longer, but I really had to get this up so I could get to the next bit. I wasn't really able to edit it, unfortunately. _

* * *

"I think I kind of hate you, bastard." Romano said casually, licking the last of the ice cream from his spoon.

He felt America's answering laugh behind him, "Yeah? Why is that?"

"How did you get so fucking big on England's food?" Romano complained, nudging America's shin with his foot. "It doesn't make any sense! He's all short and shit, and you're like, a fuckin' _giant_ or something."

"Haha! Well, it's not like I only ate England's food," America explained, nudging him back, "he wasn't really around that much once I started growing, so I hunted, and sometimes my people fed me, too. I ate a lot of meat during my growth period."

"Oh. I guess that makes sense, then." Romano set his empty bowl on the bedside table, and settled back against America. As he did so, his eyes travelled to the dresser across from the bed, and it occurred to him to wonder, "So...is that why you're so strong?"

"Nah, I was always strong." America answered matter-of-factly, lifting the ice pack to check his best friend's injury. "England says it's cause I was probably born on a 'nexus of leylines', or somethin'. There're lots of theories about why, but I figure it's 'cause I'm the hero! Looks like your bump's gone down a bit. It feelin' better?"

"Mm, i-it still hurts. A little."

"Hm." Setting the ice pack on the bed, he gently massaged Romano's scalp around the swelling. "We'll put the ice pack back on in a minute. Don't wanna give you frostbite. Want me to get you some aspirin or something?"

"Nnnng..." Romano moaned, eyes fluttering shut as tingles of pleasure shot down his spine, hands grasping reflexively at America's slacks. The fingers in his hair disappeared.

"Ah- did that hurt? I'm sorry." America apologized anxiously as he pulled his hand away.

Romano breathed deeply, removing his own hands from the other's slacks. "I-it's okay." He said, a little shakily. "I, I just...need some more ice cream."

"Okay." America leaned over to retrieve the bowl from the bedside table. "I'll get s'more. Here," He held out the ice pack for Romano to take, "hold that on, and I'll be right back." Sliding one leg off the bed, he paused, nudging the other's shoulder. "Gotta move so I can get up, buddy."

"O-oh. Right." Romano scooted down the bed so America could get up, and stared down at the ice pack in his hands as the other nation left the room once more. _Shit_. He was in trouble. He rubbed the back of his neck, smoothing away the prickling sensation, and pressed the ice to his forehead to cool it down. Okay, so maybe he _did_ have a crush. Maybe he was a even little attracted to...to America. Closing his eyes, he recalled the sensation of America's fingers threading through his hair, stroking his scalp, and shivered. More than a little, if he was being honest.

So...what was he going to do about it? He needed to think. But his mind kept returning to America's touch on his scalp, America against his back, warm and firm and broad, and...he shivered, clenching his hands, and breathed out, shakily, America's legs tangled with his, America's voice in his ear, America's arms around him, so, so strong and...he fisted his hands in his hair, and mentally shook himself. This wasn't working. He needed to _think_, to figure things out, but he couldn't, not here. Everything he looked at reminded him of America. The furniture, the house, the closet, his _luggage_. He needed to, to...to get out. Somewhere...somewhere neutral. Somewhere where he wasn't alone in such close quarters with, with America. Somewhere where they weren't _fucking cuddling_ on the _bed_. Somewhere where America didn't keep _touching_ him.

At least, not until he got his feelings sorted out.

He set the ice pack down and stood, picking the sketch up off the floor and setting it aside as well.

"Here-" America started, as he reentered the room carrying Romano's ice cream.

"America." Romano interrupted determinedly, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Let's go shopping."

"Right now?"

"Yes. Right now, bastard."

"Okay." America nodded, and set the bowl of ice cream down on the dresser. "I'll go and get changed real quick. You might wanna grab a jacket, it's a little chilly out. You can eat your ice cream on the way."

"Nnh." Romano agreed, and exhaled when America left. The door down the hall opened and closed. A jacket, huh? Taking the bowl from the dresser, he looked over at the closet where the clothes he'd brought hung, and then at the bomber which hung from the doorknob, and took a bite of his ice cream.

Oh, chocolate syrup.

* * *

Closing his door behind him, America kicked off his shoes, loosening his tie. Man, he had to get out of these work clothes. He'd been wearing them for almost 24 hours! Come to think of it, he should probably take a quick shower. He wouldn't want to be all gross while he was out with Romano. But, Romano did seem to want to go right away...he'd better check. Opening his door, he leaned into the hallway. "Hey, 'Mano?"

"Hm?" Came the preoccupied answer from the room down the hall.

"Mind if I take a quick shower before we go? I feel kinda gross."

"You don't need my permission, bastard. Knock yourself out."

"'Kay, thanks. It won't take long. Meet you downstairs?"

"Yeah, sure."

"'Kay! Be down in a couple!" Humming to himself, America closed the door, and headed for his bathroom, unbuttoning his shirt as he went, pausing by the foot of the bed to unbuckle his belt and kick off his slacks. Romano always smelled so good, he thought as he pulled off his shirt, balling it up with his slacks and tossing them in the general direction of the hamper. He wondered if Romano wore some special cologne or used a special shampoo, or if it was natural, like, just how Romano smelled _all the time_. He hopped on one foot, pulling off his socks. It wasn't real strong or anything. Just, really, really nice. He pulled off his undershirt, and held it up to his nose. Hm. It smelled a _little_ like Romano, probably from when he was helping Romano out with the ice pack. Glancing over to where his shirt lay crumpled on the floor next to the hamper, internally debating. It probably smelled more like Romano, but it was in the dirty laundry (sort of), so it was probably kind of weird to go over there and pick it up just to smell it. The side of his mouth pulled back a little regretfully. He tossed his undershirt and socks towards the hamper as well, sighing inwardly when they bounced off it and tumbled to the floor next to his shirt and slacks. He'd better go throw 'em in the hamper _properly_. Stupid hamper, not catching his clothes. He needed to make some sort of hamper that would pick dirty clothes up off the floor so you wouldn't have to. It was such a pain! Scooping the pile of clothes off the floor, he paused just before he dropped them in the basket, realizing that he held the shirt, and he hadn't picked it up _specifically_ to smell it or anything, so it wasn't creepy if he did, 'cause he'd picked it up to throw it in the laundry, and that was normal. Picking it up off the pile, he sniffed it tentatively, and smiled. Yep! Romano! Bouncing on his toes and smiling uncontrollably, he dropped it into the hamper with the rest of his clothes and went to take his shower, singing as one of his favorite songs sprang to mind.

"I'll shine up the old brown shoes, put on a brand-new shirt.~"

* * *

Romano zipped up the bomber, having opted to don it once more. Since, y'know, it would take a while to choose a jacket from the ones he'd brought, and anyway he wasn't sure what might happen on their little shopping trip -what if they ran into a moose or something?- and it would be bad if a moose or something happened to one of his jackets, and America's jacket was probably moose-resistant, and he knew it was warm, and besides, it was right there and America wasn't wearing it and didn't seem to mind him wearing it, so it seemed a shame to leave it hanging in his room, when he could wear it and save so much trouble by doing so.

He adjusted the collar, burying his nose briefly in the soft fur. Not because it smelled like America, or anything, even though it kind of did, but because fur was nice. He closed his eyes and breathed in, a smile curving his lips, and then turned his attention to the sleeves, bunching them up around his wrists. He slid his hands into the pockets, and turned around, looking down at himself. It was a little long, true, and a little big, but still, it looked alright. It was a nice jacket.

He curled his fingers in the silk lining of the pockets, and nodded in satisfaction. Oh wait, pockets- Nino's envelope! He patted the breast of the jacket, feeling something thin and stiff through the soft leather on the left side. Aha, there it was. He unzipped the jacket partway, reaching inside to grab the envelope, intending to have a look at just what Nino had- he froze, eyes widening as the sound of a shower started up behind the wall few feet to his left, the wall separating their rooms. Slowly, his head turned to stare at it, a hot flush spreading across his entire person. America was taking a shower right on the other side of that wall. _America_ was _naked_ and _wet_ on the other side of that wall. America was _naked _and _wet_ and _soapy_ less than _seven feet away_. He could hear him singing, too. In the shower. The hot, steamy shower. _America_ was _right there_, _hot_ and _steamy_ and _naked_ and _wet_ and _soapy_ and _he had to get out of this room_. Grabbing the empty bowl, Romano fled, bolting from the room and down the stairs to wait in the safety of the kitchen, where people who he may or may not be somewhat sort of _really fucking_ attracted to wouldn't be _taking showers_ right next to him for no damn reason at all.

Dumping the bowl in the sink, he grabbed a glass from the cupboard and dug the wine from dinner out of the 'fridge, pouring himself a little to settle his nerves. Then a little more, because _America was naked and wet_ upstairs, and would be coming down any minute, and he wouldn't be able to look at the bastard without remembering that he'd recently been naked and wet just a few feet away. Then he paused, and poured it all back, because drinking alchohol under these circumstances was a really fucking stupid idea. _Feliciano_-level stupid.

He corked the bottle, putting it back in the 'fridge, and rubbed his temples, sighing. _Get ahold of yourself, idiot. _He scolded himself inwardly. _You're_ _an _adult, _dammit_. The_ adult, in this situation._ He had to be a man about this, dammit. America was his friend. America liked him as a friend. Best friend, sure, but a _friend_. And America was a _good_ friend. He wasn't after Grandpa's legacy or Italy or a cheap fling or anything like that. America seemed to genuinely like Romano, and want to be his friend, for whatever reason. And sure, he was hyper and kind of an idiot sometimes, but Romano had to admit that...he kind of liked America, too. As a person. They, they clicked. They had a good thing going, here. A good _friendship_. Yeah, sure, he was attracted to the idiot, but that wasn't all there was to it. And maybe he had a little crush, but it was probably just...'cause he wasn't used to all this attention, and his subconscious was mistaking the nature of their relationship. Getting attached. Like America had said his brother, what's-his-name, Camrada, tended to do. Yeah, he and America were getting sort of close, but they were friends, and friends did that. Especially _best_ friends. America liked him, as a friend.

Not...anything else.

He had to remember that.

He dropped tiredly into a chair, leaning an elbow against the table, chin in hand. He pulled Nino's envelope out of the inside pocket of the jacket, dropping it listlessly on the table. Might as well have a look while he was waiting. He flicked it open with his thumb, pulling the pictures out and glancing at the one on top. He closed his eyes. Dammit, Nino, you bastard. Why'd you have to take pictures of America in his fucking suit? This was the _last_ thing he needed, right now. Dropping the pictures on the table, he rubbed his face with both hands, exhaling deeply.

And there was America coming down the stairs. Time to get this show on the road. He could do this. They were friends. Romano stood, heading for the door.

Maybe he shouldn't have had that second bowl of ice cream. His stomach felt a little heavy, all of a sudden.

* * *

America bounced down the steps, comfortable and clean in his hoodie and jeans. He was especially excited, 'cause he'd realized as he was getting dressed— this was going to be his first outing with Romano as Best Friends! He and Romano were going to be out in public together, where everybody could see that Romano was _his_ best friend! Granted, it was still really early and probably there wouldn't be many people out right now, but still. Everyone who _was_ out would be able to see that he and Romano were together. That Romano was _his_ best friend.

He paused on the steps. Wait, how would they be able to tell? Sure, he and Romano would be together, but people hung out together who weren't best friends. Friends and relatives and coworkers, and sometimes people who didn't even _like_ each other very much went out in public with each other every day.

He frowned, resuming his descent more subduedly as he thought. There had to be _some_ way to show people that he and Romano were together. Maybe...maybe they could wear matching outfits? Like, matching shirts. Or hats, maybe, but he'd never seen Romano wear a hat, so that probably wasn't the best option. He'd have to think about it. He wanted _everybody_ to know Romano was _his_ best friend, and that he was Romano's.

Maybe he could pin him? It was kind of old-fashioned, but he had some nice pins hanging around. One of his medals, maybe. Or, or, he had a letter jacket somewhere. Canada probably still had it, his brother liked to steal it sometimes, but he could always steal it back. Would Romano wear it, though? 'Mano was a little picky about what he wore...

"Oi, bastard. You ready to go?" Romano's voice shook him out of his thoughts, and America turned to see his best friend waiting at the end of the hall. He blinked.

"Oh. You... you wore my bomber."

Romano blushed and looked away, shoulders drawing up defensively. "S-so? You have a problem with it, bastard?" He challenged, shoving his hands into the pockets.

America shook his head, coming to stand next to him. Romano looked up at him a little nervously.

"No." America's lips quirked up as he reached out to smooth down the collar, and drew the back of his fingers across the Italian's cheek. "No problem. It...looks good on you." He tilted his head thoughtfully, shoving his hands into the pocket of his hoodie, and smiled. "You look...perfect."

For a second Romano just stared back at him, wide-eyed and red-faced. Then he blinked, and looked away, lips pursing in irritation. "W-whatever, bastard. Let's just, just get going."

"Alright." America agreed amiably, holding out a hand for Romano to take, and squeezing it happily when he did. This was awesome. There was a little extra bounce in his step as he walked, happiness and excitement charging him up. This was _great_. It was perfect! Everybody for miles around knew his bomber. Now anyone that saw them would know Romano was with _him_. It was better than matching shirts or pins or hats or anything like that! And best of all, Romano had thought of it himself! He hadn't even had to say anything!

Were they perfect for each other or what? The _best_ best friends _ever!_

"There's a home improvement store not far from here that's open all night," He said as he opened the passenger door of the truck for Romano, "I figured we could go there first. They have a pretty good selection. If you don't find what you like there, there's a few department stores we can check next."

Romano grunted in acknowledgement as he took his seat, shoving his hands into the pockets of the jacket once more. "O-okay."

"Seatbelt." America reminded him, grinning, leaning against the door of the truck. Romano scowled, opening his mouth to argue, but then his gaze dropped to America's jeans and he stopped. He blushed, looking away, and yanked the belt across himself, buckling it quickly.

"Th-_there_." He said, a little sulkily. "Happy, bastard?"

"Yep. Thank you, Romano." America smiled, shutting the door and coming 'round the front of the truck to take his own seat.

"Didja finish your ice cream already?" He asked as he buckled himself in and turned the keys in the ignition, realizing for the first time that Romano didn't have it with him.

"Yeah." Romano answered, staring down at his lap.

"How's your head? Feeling better?"

"Nnh." Romano answered in the positive, twisting his fingers in his lap. America glanced at him briefly.

"You okay, 'Mano?"

"I-I'm fine, bastard." Romano hunched a little in his seat, fingers twisting more tightly.

"You sure?" America glanced over at him again, brows furrowing in concern. "You seem a little...I don't know. Down. Is something wrong?"

Romano muttered something unintelligible.

"Hm? What was that, 'Mano?"

"M-my stomach hurts..." Romano mumbled, a little louder.

America frowned, worried. Had he given Romano too much ice cream? It was less than half of the amount Germany'd said Italians could handle, but maybe American ice cream was different. Or, maybe it was the chocolate syrup? It'd seemed like a good idea at the time, but..."Like, a stomach ache?"

"I, I..." Romano's voice broke, and he sniffled wetly, "I..." He scrubbed at his eyes with his sleeve.

"Romano?" Alarmed, America slowed the truck, pulled over, and quickly unbuckled his seatbelt in order to lean over and put a hand on Romano's shoulder. "Does it hurt much? Was it the ice cream? Do we need to go to the hospital?" He pressed a hand to Romano's temple, checking his temperature. Warm, but not feverish. He crawled up in his seat, leaning farther over to unbuckle Romano, as well. "Do you feel like throwing up? What's wrong?" He bit his lip, tears pricking at his eyes. Romano was hurt and he didn't know why! "R-romano?"

"W-why are you so _nice_ to me, bastard?" Romano sobbed, voice rough with tears. "I, I..."

"What?" Confused, America reached for him, cupping his cheek, leaning down to try and to see his face, "What do you mean, Romano?"

"I, I don't..." Romano rubbed his eyes with shaking hands, unable to finish.

"Romano," America's voice trembled as he turned the Italian's face towards him, pressing his forehead to Romano's, eyes closing in distress, "please don't cry. Please don't cry, Romano. I'll make it better, I promise. Just, tell me what's wrong, okay? Please don't cry, Romano, please."

Romano sniffed, hard, and sobbed, throwing his arms around America's neck, pressing his face into his throat. America pulled Romano into his lap, holding him tight, and turned his own face into Romano's hair, tears leaking from tightly closed eyes.

* * *

Long after his tears had ceased, Romano sat with his face pressed into the crook of America's neck, exhausted and spent. But America's arms were wrapped around him, holding him close like he'd never let anything happen to Romano, and it was sort of comforting and reassuring. He could feel America's heart beating steady and slow, and he was so warm and firm and clean-smelling, and the steady rise and fall of his chest as America breathed was all making him feel very safe, and relaxed, and lulling him to sleep. He was really kind of tired... He sighed, eyes drifting closed.

* * *

America shifted a little, feeling the other nation's breathing slow and deepen. Had Romano fallen asleep? He pulled back a little and turned his head slightly, trying to see the other's face without disturbing him. No good, he just couldn't see, he was too close. He bit his lip, thinking. Ah! Careful not to jostle the nation in his arms, he reached up to flip down the visor, positioning it so he could see Romano's face in the mirror, and tilted his head to the side slightly for a better view.

Ah, yep- Romano had fallen asleep. He studied the face on his shoulder, looking for a clue as to why Romano had been crying. He looked so calm and peaceful right now, though. Aside from slight indications that he'd recently been crying, there were no signs of pain or discomfort. America's heart hurt a little to see the tear tracks on his best friend's cheeks. Carefully, he replaced the visor and settled back into place, pressing his cheek to Romano's dark hair, arms wrapped securely around the smaller nation once more.

He still didn't know _why_ Romano had been crying, other than the fact that his stomach hurt, but it didn't seem to be hurting now, 'cause Romano probably wouldn't be able to sleep if it was, so that was good. Maybe it _had_ been the ice cream, and his stomach ache just went away on its own. Stomach aches didn't usually make people cry like that, though. Maybe a few tears and a little groaning, but not the torrential, heaving sobs that had been coming from Romano. Not in his experience, anyway. Maybe Romano was extra-sensitive to stomach aches? Or maybe it wasn't the ice cream at all. But if it wasn't the ice cream, America had no idea what it could be.

Whatever it was, he had to make sure it never happened again. He _never_ wanted to see Romano cry like that again, _ever_. It was...it'd felt like his heart was breaking to see it.

He reached up to brush the hair from Romano's temple, stroking the warm skin with his thumb. It'd be okay. He'd find out what had made Romano cry like that, whatever it was, and fix it.

Romano shifted a little in his sleep, nestling closer, sighing against his neck, "...bastard..."

America's heart melted. Awwwww! Romano was so cute! He nuzzled his hair affectionately, lips curling up in a smile. He resisted the urge to squeeze him, though, so he wouldn't wake him up. Romano would wake up when he was ready! He could wait.

The sound of a car pulling up behind them made him glance at the rearview mirror. Oh, a patrol car. Not surprising, really, considering that he was pulled over on the side of the road for no apparent reason. He pressed the button to roll down his window as the officer approached the truck, hoping nothing would happen to disturb Romano's slumber.

"Hey Al," The officer greeted when he'd reached the window, flashlight at the ready, "Ev-"

"Shhhh, Frankie!" America shushed, holding a finger up to his lips, "You'll wake him up!"

"Oh, shit, sorry!" The officer grimaced apologetically, lowering his voice, "Didn't see him there!"

"It's okay." America half-whispered back. "Just so long as you're quiet. What's up?"

"Not much. We just saw your truck sitting here and thought we'd check up on you. Seemed unusual. Everything okay?"

"Yeah, we're fine." America nodded. "Just a little-"

"Hey guys, everything okay?" Called another officer, approaching the truck.

"SHHHH!" America and Officer Frankie shushed him loudly. The other officer took a step back in surprise, before approaching more cautiously.

"What's wrong?" He whispered.

"You'll wake up Al's little friend, dumbshit!" Officer Frankie scolded.

"Fuck off Franklin, I didn't know." The newcomer hissed back, and peered curiously into the cab. "Sorry, Al. Who is it?"

"S'ok, Curtis. This is Lovino Vargas." America explained. "He'll be staying with me for a while."

"Yeah?" Both officers regarded what they could see of the sleeping form with renewed interest.

"Vargas, huh? That's a good cop name." Frankie said, leaning against the side of the truck. "You should get him to sign up! We need more good men."

"He's from Italy." America grinned, amused. "I don't think he'd be able to make the commute."

"Wow, Italy? That's pretty far away."

"Yep, it is." America agreed.

"He's wearing your jacket." Officer Curtis observed interestedly.

"Yep!" America beamed.

"Is he a _special_ friend?" Curtis asked, waggling his eyebrows.

"_Very_ special." America confirmed, glowing with pride.

"Aww." Both officers grinned, happy to see Alfred so happy. "That's great, Al! Good for you."

"Thanks." America couldn't stop smiling. "I'm really happy!"

"I can see that." Curtis chuckled, and gestured to Romano. "Can we see him? Y'know, if it won't wake him up?"

"Sure." America nodded, tilting his head to the side a bit and lifting his chin so the officers could see Romano better. They peered eagerly at the Italian's sleeping face.

Romano murmured something unintelligible, nuzzling into America's neck.

"Isn't that the cutest fuckin' thing you've ever seen." Curtis grinned at the picture the two made.

"I know, right?" America agreed wholeheartedly, glad that Romano's cuteness was bring properly appreciated. "He's adorable!"

"Hahah, you got it _bad, _man." Curtis shook his head, grin widening.

"Haha, what?"

"Looks like he's been cryin'." Frankie observed, brows furrowing. "He okay?"

"I don't know." America confessed, frowning a little in concern. "I mean, he seems okay now, but he was crying pretty hard a little while ago. I'm not sure why. He said his stomach hurt, so I thought it might be a stomach ache at first, but he was crying pretty hard, so I don't think so."

"Well, that's not good." Curtis frowned along with his nation. "I wonder what's wrong. Did he say anything else?"

"Not really, he just sorta said his stomach hurt, and burst into tears. Which was weird, 'cause he was fine earlier."

"Maybe he's homesick." Officer Franklin offered. "I mean, Italy's pretty far away, right? It's gotta be hard to travel so far from home, and on top of that try'n to adjust to a whole new country and shit. I remember back when I was in the Army they sent me to boot camp in Albuquerque, and I was homesick like nobody's business for the first couple days. Used to call my momma cryin' to let me come home. My stomach used to hurt pretty bad, then, too. And Italy's a lot farther away than New Mexico."

America's brows furrowed in worry. "You really think that's it?" He asked anxiously.

"Could be." Frankie affirmed. "Don't worry though. I got over it, and I'm sure he will, too. Just keep him distracted and make sure he doesn't have to much time to think, and that should help."

"I can do that." America nodded. Homesickness was sounding more and more plausible. He _had_ left Romano alone for a while, while he was in the shower. Maybe being all alone had made Romano start to feel lonely and homesick. "Anything else?"

"That should do it, I think." Frankie said. "Just keep 'im busy. Distraction is the best cure for homesickness."

"'Kay. Thanks, Frankie."

"No problem, Al." The officer smiled, tapping the brim of his cap. "Glad I could help."

"I got some sweets back in the squad car," Curtis offered, wanting to help too, "and donuts. You guys want some?"

"Chocolate?" America inquired hopefully.

"You know it." Curtis grinned.

"Yes please."

"'Kay, I'll be right back. Your special friend have a preference, y'know?"

"Um, I'm not sure." America confessed. "I know he likes chocolate ice cream and malts, so I think anything chocolate should be okay."

"Roger. Chocolate and more chocolate, comin' right up!" Officer Curtis saluted and sallied forth to fetch the goods.

Frankie shook his head, leaning against the door. "He's got a sweet tooth worse than yours, I swear. Candy, cookies, donuts, fudge, our squad car's always full of the damn stuff. Sometimes I feel like I'm riding with the fuckin' sugarplum fairy."

"Haha! A little sugar never hurt anybody." America grinned.

"A _little_, sure. But when you're neck deep in licorice and lollipops you got a problem."

"Don't listen to him," Curtis asserted, returning with his arms full of candybars, "Frankie's just jealous 'cause I can eat all this shit and still fit into the same uniform I was issued ten years ago."

"It's not _natural_." Franklin grumbled, tipping his hat back and crossing his arms. "_No_-one can eat that much sugar and not gain weight."

"What can I say, I'm special." Curtis smiled smugly, handing the last of the candy to America, who added it to the miniature candy mountain in the passenger's seat.

"Thanks, Curt. This is great." America chuckled, amused and grateful.

"No problem Al, anytime." Curtis grinned, satisfied that he'd been able to contribute. He swatted his partner on the arm. "We should get goin', can't dilly-dally here all night. Got work to do! Bad guys to wrestle into submission, horny kids to bust."

"Yeah, alright." Frankie nodded, pushing off the truck. "Let's get goin'. Nice to see you again Al, hope your little buddy feels better soon."

"Thanks for all your help guys. Good luck out there!"

"Bye Al!" Curtis waved, turning to return to the squad car. Franklin started to follow, but then returned to the truck, poking his head inside the window.

"Oh, hey, I almost forgot- there's been a couple moose sightings on this road in the last couple days. You guys be careful, eh?" He waved, trotting after his partner.

"'Kay. Thanks for the warning, I'll keep an eye out for any moose!" America called after him, and rolled up the window.

"Mooses?" Romano lifted his head, arms tightening around America's neck, glancing around in sleepy alarm. "Where?"

"You're awake!" America greeted, smiling.

"Somebody said mooses." Romano peered out the window, blinking sleep-blurred eyes. He didn't _see_ any mooses, but maybe they were hiding? Lurking around, waiting for an opportunity to pounce. Like sharks. Or France.

"No moose." America assured him. "Just some officers checking up on us. You feeling better?"

"No moose?" Romano repeated, turning to face him. "You sure, bastard?"

"Pretty sure." America said, and licked his thumb, rubbing at one of the salty tear tracks on Romano's cheeks to erase it. "You feelin' better?"

"Mm," Romano batted his hand away, rubbing at his own face with the palm of his hand. He did feel a lot better. Lighter, somehow. He didn't knowwhy he'd been crying, there was no damn reason for it. It was just...since he'd left the kitchen the sensation in his stomach got worse and worse, and it seemed like everytime America touched him or said something or looked at him or smiled his stomach got heavier and heavier and his chest grew tighter and tighter, until it started to _hurt_ and all of a sudden it was all too much and the tears wouldn't stop. Now the weight and tight feeling was gone, and his little nap had been kind of refreshing, so obviously whatever the problem was it was over with. "'M fine."

"Good." America smiled, relieved, and then bit his lip, brows furrowing as he searched Romano's face. If Romano _was_ homesick, then it was all his fault. Romano had only come 'cause he'd insisted. He'd forced his best friend to leave his home where he was comfortable and happy and travel thousands of miles across the sea to a strange place just to spend time with him, without even thinking how that might make Romano feel. Romano had been hurting because of him! He was a _terrible_ best friend. "Romano," he said earnestly, "I owe you an apology."

"Yeah?" Romano yawned, running his hands through his hair to straighten it, "What for?"

"I've been a terrible friend." America's eyes slid to the side, guilty and sad. "I've been really selfish, and I'm sorry. I didn't _mean_ to make you cry, honest. I -

"What are you _talking_ about, idiot?" Romano stared, a little groggily. "Did you hit your head or something?"

"No!" America denied, blurting, "I was talking to Frankie while you were sleeping and he said he got sick in Albuquerque and I realized I left you all alone and Italy's a lot farther away than New Mexico and I made you cry and I'm really sorry, Romano!"

"...Are you _sure_ you didn't hit your head, bastard?" Romano frowned, leaning up to check America's head, prodding his scalp looking for bumps and bruises. "Was it the mooses?"  
"Moose." Corrected America, "and there aren't any moose. At least, there haven't been. There might be later, but there haven't yet." He pulled Romano's hands away and shook his head to clear it, realizing he was getting off track. Forget about moose, he had to fix this! "Forget about the mooses— _moose_! This is important, Romano. You need to know I'm sorry for making your stomach hurt and making you cry!"

"You didn't make me cry, idiot. Why would you think that?"

"Yes I did, Romano! I was so excited about spending more time with you that I didn't think about how hard it would be for you to leave your home and everything and come all this way. And now you're homesick because of me!"

"What are you _talking_ about, bastard? What do you mean, homesick? Where'd you get that idea?"

"It's okay, Romano, I figured it out. At first I thought it might be the ice cream, but you only ate about half of what you can eat without getting sick, so I wasn't sure. Then I talked to Frankie and Curtis about it while you were asleep- they're the officers who patrol this area at night- and Franklin said when he was in the Army they sent him to New Mexico, and he got homesick. He said it made his stomach hurt really bad and he cried, too, and Italy's a _lot_ farther away so it must be worse for you." He examined Romano's face worriedly, looking for any signs of lingering homesickness. Mostly Romano looked a little confused, so he hastened to reassure him, "It's okay though. He told me how to fix it, too, so it'll be okay, I promise."

Romano's brows furrowed. Homesick? Was _that_ why his stomach had hurt so much and he'd just started crying out of nowhere? He wasn't sure. Maybe? He hadn't been here that long, though, so he kind of doubted it, but it didn't really matter either way 'cause America was looking worried and guilty and sad and he didn't want the idiot to look like that, ever. "I, I'm not homesick."

"You're not? Then why were you crying?"

"Uh..." Romano cast around for an explanation. "I, it...I was...it was...there was a moose!"

"What?" America blinked, expression morphing from worried to confused. "There aren't any moose, Romano."

"I, I know that!" Romano blushed, but continued determinedly, "But, I thought I saw a moose lurking and about to attack, and it was scary and my stomach started to hurt, and so that's why I cried, okay bastard? It, it wasn't your fault! It was the moose, okay? Not you."

"I don't know..." America said doubtfully. "That doesn't sound very likely, Romano. Are you sure?"

"I said it was, didn't I? You don't believe me, bastard?" Romano challenged, crossing his arms. "It was the moose, dammit!"

"If you thought you saw a moose, why didn't you tell me?" America asked, brows furrowing. "I would have been able to tell you whether it was a moose or not."

"I, I didn't want you to be scared." Romano insisted, blush deepening. "So I kept quiet so you wouldn't worry. Be grateful, bastard!"

America stared blankly at Romano. He was fairly sure Romano was covering something up, 'cause if Romano had thought he'd seen a moose he probably wouldn't have kept quiet about it. Moose seemed to worry him, for some reason. He was pretty sure that Romano had been crying 'cause he was homesick- it was the only thing that made sense- but why would Romano tell such a ridiculous story to try and convince America that he _wasn't _homesick, and that it wasn't America's - oh. _Oh_. Romano was trying to spare his feelings! Romano made up that whole silly story about a moose to make him feel better. His lips quirked up. "So, a moose, huh?"

"That's right." Romano nodded, and narrowed his eyes. "Or are you calling me a liar, bastard?"

"Thanks, Romano." America said warmly, enveloping Romano in a hug. "You're a really good friend, y'know?"

"O-of course I am!" Romano squirmed, trying to get away. "Now get off me, bastard! You're going to squish me!"

"Haha, okay." America agreed, releasing him. "You ready to go shopping now, 'Mano?"

"Yeah." Romano crawled into his seat- only to find a mound of candy occupying his spot. "What the- Where the fuck did all this candy come from?"

"Curtis gave it to us." America explained, helping Romano shift it from the seat so he could sit down. "So we'd have something to eat on the way."

"The cop you were talking to earlier?" Romano wondered, relocating most of the pile to his lap and unwrapping a bar. "Your cops give you candy?"

"Sometimes!"

Romano shook his head, breaking off a chunk of chocolate. Moose, all-night stores, elephants and cops with candy. "...this country is really weird, bastard."

* * *

_AN: Oh, man. This chapter. I'll be honest, I can't speak for the quality 'cause to me everything after Romano had his little freakout is complete gibberish, **especially**_ _after Romano started crying. sakerat could tell you how much I whined about this chapter, because, you see, I have this thing that makes it really, really hard for me to deal with Romano being sad, which is to say, I have a hero complex. And there was nothing I could do to fix it! Romano was crying and I can't do anything to help! I was tearing my hair out about that. _

_Course it doesn't help that he was **crying**, which is really hard for me to deal with when people do **anyway**, 'cause I always want to Fix It, but I've learned that sometimes people have to cry and it's okay, but man the urge to **Fix** it doesn't go away. _

_I really hope America takes Frankie's advice to heart and keeps Romano too busy to think much in the next few chapters 'cause I don't know if I could take much more of Romano being sad. My head aches. _

_I basically have to let them do what they want to do, anyway, so I really can't say for sure either way. I tell you though, I'm glad to have this off my screen. _

_On the plus side I know it'll all turn out in the end, but still._

_Oh, I wanted to ask... updates might slow a bit, 'cause...well, you read the last couple chapters and this one. There's a lot more UST/CST coming up, and so forth, and so I have to be careful 'cause if it isn't handled right it just isn't believable, and I don't want it to be hokey, y'know? But, I wanted to know if you guys would prefer longer chapters once a month or every couple weeks, or chapters like this every week or two. _

_I was really hoping to get to Canada this chapter, but that's okay. Maybe I can squeeze him into the next one. He'll be a welcome addition to the little dynamic, here. Maybe he'll help keep Romano distracted!_

_Ah- almost forgot. For those of you who weren't born in America (it has come to my attention that some of you weren't), I should explain: 'pinning' is a practice wherein a boy gives the girl of his affections his 'pin', usually a school pin or medal of some sort. It was also done between male friends who were especially close, although that was more rare. It's largely out of practice these days, although it's not completely obsolete, especially in more rural areas or among the sporting set._

_'Pin/pinning' is also slang for sexual activity. _

_Letter jackets: I think they do these in many countries overseas, but just in case, again- it's a jacket issued to members of an academic or sporting group to signify a certain level of performance, um... usually you let your significant other wear it, or very close friends/relatives. My brothers had girls fighting over theirs, I recall. I would only let my brothers wear mine. They guarded that right pretty fiercely, although it was stolen on occasion. _

_I hope that helps. If you have any questions, feel free to ask! Oh- new links to Romerica pics in my profile, and hopefully soon new links to Romerica AMVs as well, once I receive permission to post them. _


	37. Out of Depth, But Moving Fast

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

_I wasn't going to post this, because it's part of a much longer chapter and after making you wait so long I wanted to post the whole thing together, but I keep rewriting the parts after this, and rewriting and readjusting and changing my mind and going in a different direction; so instead of making you wait who-knows-how long for the whole thing, I figured I should at least do you the courtesy of giving you something to read, even if it's short. _

_sakerat, I miss you~! It's hard to write without you around to bounce ideas off of. __I hope you're safe out there and Irene didn't hit you too hard. _

_Stay safe, all you guys out there on the East Coast. _

* * *

"So what are we looking for here?" America wondered as they entered their second store. The home improvement store had been a moderate success. Romano had found quite a few things he liked there; light fixtures and switch covers and tiles for the bathroom, among other things. They'd even spent an interesting and instructive hour and a half at the paint center while Romano harangued the staff member in charge of mixing the paints, finally brushing him aside in exasperation, rolling up his sleeves and taking over the job. America'd shared his chocolate with the harried young man, and they both watched in fascination as Romano worked, mixing his '_own_ damn paint I can't _believe_ this shit are all Americans fucking _colorblind_', mixing and testing and dipping and stirring. America felt he knew house paints pretty well, he'd painted a lot of houses and rooms in his time (admittedly, usually in variations on the theme of white), but he'd learned some new things about color by the time Romano emerged with a satisfied huff and several gallons of paint.

America was kind of excited to actually paint the room. If Romano could make _mixing_ paint that interesting, he really wanted to see how it all turned out.

"Mm, I want to look at the window treatments." Romano said, frowning thoughtfully at the monumental entryway. The width he could understand, but did the doors really have to be twelve feet tall (maybe so the elephants could get through)? And the ceiling was ridiculously high, too. "See what's available."

"'Kay." America gestured towards the far left corner of the store, and grabbed Romano's hand to lead him there. "The curtains and stuff should be towards the back of the store. Off that way."

"Yeah? How do you know?"

"I shop here alot! Besides, it's on the sign." America indicated the sign hanging from the ceiling by a long chain, which listed the many departments, complete with little arrows indicating which direction one should go in the vast belly of the store in order to become hopelessly lost trying to find what they wanted.

Romano stopped and perused the sign, reading off the various departments. Holy shit, America hadn't been kidding. You could buy just about _anything_. "'Pets'? Is that where they keep the elephants?"

"What?" America blinked down at him for a second before realizing what he was talking about. "Oh! No, that's mostly pet supplies and stuff. Like, food and brushes and collars. I think the only actual pets they sell here are fish."

"Oh. No elephants?" That was...strangely disappointing (not that he _wanted_ an elephant, but...America had said there were elephants, and part of him had been kind of expecting them).

"No elephants." America affirmed. "You have to have a special license to sell elephants, 'cause they're considered exotic animals. There isn't much of a demand for elephants, though, so most stores don't bother."

"Oh. Then why are the doors so big?"

America looked back at the entryway. "What do you mean? Looks normal to me."

"...Nevermind." Apparently they were humongous for no reason, like everything else in America. _Americans_. His brows furrowed. "So where did you get your elephant, bastard?"

"Jersey." America swung their joined hands idly, watching them go back and forth. "Why, d'you want an elephant?"

Romano had sudden a mental image of an elephant sitting in the middle of his room, flapping its ears and eating peanuts from a bowl, while he read a book on the bed nearby. He shook his head. "No. Thanks, though."

"'Kay." America nodded. "I guess it's just as well. My whale friend didn't really like the last one much."

"I'm sure." Romano shook his head pityingly. Damn England. "Let's go look at curtains, bastard."

"Right! This way!" America announced excitedly, and took off, dragging Romano behind him. Romano nearly tripped over his own legs at the unexpected change in momentum.

"S-slow down, idiot!" He exclaimed, breaking into a faltering trot in his struggle to keep up. "You're going too fast, dammit!"

"Hahaha, sorry!"

* * *

America shifted idly, not sure what to do with himself. It wasn't that he was bored exactly, but Romano was still looking at curtains and, well, that had only been interesting for the first half hour or so. He'd offered to help Romano choose some curtains or drapes or whatever, but Romano said he already knew what he wanted and didn't need any help, especially not colorblind help. So then he'd tried asking questions and stuff, which Romano had answered somewhat absently, absorbed in window treatments, but there were only so many questions he could think to ask about curtains before they got repetitive or silly or both. About the third time he'd found himself asking, somewhat inanely, "So, there sure are a lot of curtains, huh?" he'd realised his behaviour was bordering on pathetic, and that was so not cool and _totally_ unheroic, and so decided to just wait paitently 'til Romano was finished. (And anyway even the silly, inane questions didn't seem to be able to distract Romano from his task, eliciting no response beyond a preoccupied "Mhm." or "Mm.", so there just wasn't much point.)

He couldn't even hold Romano's hand, 'cause Romano kept moving around and using his hands to hold the stuff he was looking at, so really, there was nothing for him to _do_.

"Do you need me to hold anything for you?" He offered hopefully.

"That's okay, bastard." Romano answered absently, rubbing a rich brocade fabric between his fingers. "We're not getting anything for the windows right now. I'm just looking."

"We're not?" America wondered confusedly. Then why were they spending so much time looking at curtains? Were they _that_ fascinating to Romano? "But you've been looking for_ever_. You didn't find anything you liked?"

"Some of these are decent." Romano admitted, folding the brocade drapes back into the package and returning them to their peg."But they're not what I have in mind. And anyway, I need to measure the windows first before we buy anything, or it won't fit."

"So are you done looking at curtains, then?" America asked, even more hopefully.

"Mm." Romano answered noncommittally. "Just let me look at these silk ones again." He wandered down the aisle a ways, pausing occasionally to pull a package off a peg or shelf and look it over, before putting it back and moving on.

America fidgeted a bit, trying to wait patiently as Romano looked at the curtains. And looked at the curtains. He supposed it was a good thing that Romano was keeping busy and not thinking about being homesick, but _he_ was there to distract Romano if Romano needed distracting, and Romano was _still looking at curtains! _How on earth did it take ten minutes to look at curtains you'd already looked at? They were made of cloth! They hung from windows! They were _curtains_. What more did you need to _know_?

_Finally_ Romano set them down and stepped away from the shelf.

"So we're done with curtains?" America asked eagerly, ready to leave this stupid aisle that was taking up all Romano's attention.

"Yep." Romano nodded, sliding his hands into his pockets. "Now I'm going to look at curtain rods."

America's shoulders drooped. "Curtain rods?"

"Mm, and - ah, are those valances? How did I miss those?" Romano wandered further down the curtain aisle to the selection of valances and cornices.

"Probably distracted by curtains." America mumbled, following a little despondently. Stupid curtains. Maybe if _he_ was a curtain Romano would pay attention to him. He glared at the rows of curtains hanging from the shelf next to him. Stupid curtains! Romano doesn't even want you, so _ha!_

He blinked, realising what he'd been doing. Had he just mentally taunted _curtains_? Obviously he'd been up longer than he'd thought. He took off his glasses to rub his face, and replaced them with a sigh. He needed to get away from all these stupid attention-stealing curtains before he went nuts.

"You wanna go get some coffee?" He offered, hope raising its head once more. "There's a coffeeshop near the front of the store."

"Yeah?" Romano completely failed to look at him, busy unrolling a valance in the same textured silk as the curtains he'd been looking at earlier, which was apparently far more interesting than America (America frowned at it, lower lip drifting into the pout zone. Stupid valance! What _was_ a 'valance', anyway? _He'd _never heard of them, so they couldn't be _that_ important). "Nn, sure. Just let me look at these and check out the curtain rods, and then we can go get some coffee."

America couldn't take it anymore. "Ro_maaaaannnoo_oo~," He whined, dropping his forehead on Romano's shoulder and sliding his arms around his middle, "if I have to look at any more curtains I'm going to _die_. Can we _please_ get some coffee? I'll look at anything you want me to afterwards, but I need some coffee first." He butted his nose against Romano's shoulderblade, ignoring that the action was making Texas press painfully into the bridge of his nose. "Pleeeeaaaaase?"

"I-if you need coffee that badly then g-go and get some, bastard." Romano fumbled with the fabric, flustered."Y-you don't need me to go along with you."

America sighed deeply, resigning himself to another hour of window-shopping, and lifted his head to rest his chin on Romano's shoulder. "No~..." He mumbled, resigned. "I don't wanna go without you."

Romano didn't respond, but after a few moments he dropped the package he held onto the shelf.

"...Well, I, I s'pose I don't need to look at these." He muttered, face turned away so America couldn't see it. "B-but, I still want to see the curtain rods; got it, bastard?"

"Okay!" America agreed readily, straightening and releasing him to seize his hand and lead him from the aisle. "We can come back right after. It won't take long. I just want some coffee to wake me up, and then we can look at all the rods you want." He cast a sidelong glance at the array of curtains as they passed, and couldn't help feeling a little smug as he squeezed Romano's hand in his. America: 1, curtains: 0. Take _that_ you stupid curtains. He laced their fingers together, grinning.

Romano closed his eyes briefly as America's fingers threaded through his, and took a deep breath, fighting the rising blush. Friends, friends, they were friends. America's thumb stroked the back of his hand, and he suppressed a shiver. _Friends_.

* * *

"I can't believe she gave you free biscotti. She never gives _anyone_ free stuff." America commented for the umpteenth time, once they were back to looking at curtain rods.

"Maybe if you weren't harassing her about making sure the milk in your drink was nonfat she'd like you better, bastard. Why'd you make such a big deal about that, anyway? Who gives a shit if it's nonfat or not." Romano nibbled on his free biscotti, which wasn't bad, actually; unlike his deplorable triple espresso, which he would have thrown away after the first sip if it hadn't helped keep his hands occupied so America couldn't hold them on the walk back and make his heart do little flips with every squeeze and caress, like he had on the way to the coffeeshop.

"Regular milk is fattening, Romano! The nonfat is better for you." America explained nonchalantly, licking foam from the edge of his cup before taking a sip. He kept an eye on Romano's progress out of the corner of his eye, waiting for his best friend to finish either biscotti or espresso so he could take whichever hand became free first.

Romano looked over at the drink America was nursing, eyebrow quirking a little incredulously. The huge cup was _still_ practically overflowing with whipped cream, caramel, chocolate syrup and chopped nuts, and he'd personally _watched_ America pour about three tablespoons of sugar into the beverage- which, in his opinion, could no longer be considered 'coffee'. It was really more of a syrup, at this point. A sugar slurry.

He decided not to comment.

Noticing his gaze, America held out his cup. "You wanna try my Carmochaturtleccino Blast, Romano?"

"No thanks, bastard. You can keep it." He shuddered, turning back to the curtain rods.

"You sure? It's got extra whipped cream."

"I've got my own cup of reprehensible sludge, thanks." Romano said dryly, hefting it.

"You don't like your espresso?"

"This isn't an _espresso_, America. This isn't even _bad_ _coffee_." Romano's lip curled at the revolting liquid tainting his cup. "_This_ is what happens to coffee when it's committed an _unforgivable sin_. This is hell for coffee beans, bastard."

"If you don't want it, I'll drink it." America offered, and took a few deep gulps of Carma- Carmochi- er, sugar slurry. "Mine's almost done, anyway." Taking the drink that Romano wordlessly handed him, he dumped its contents into his cup, and nested them together so he could hold them both in one hand. He glanced briefly at Romano's now-empty hands, debating whether or not he could take one now, or if Romano was going to need both of them for looking at curtain rods. Well...he'd used both of them to look at curtains, and curtain rods were a lot bigger, so he probably would. Okay. He could wait 'til Romano was done. He sipped his coffee, wrinkling his nose a little at the taste. Could use more sugar. Oh well, at least it was caffeine. If looking at curtain rods was anything like looking at curtains, he was going to need it; especially if he didn't have Romano's hand in his to keep him occupied.

Romano stared at America's hand out of the corner of his eye, waiting, heart beating anxiously. Any second now, America would try to grab his hand again. Or put his arm around him, or something like that. Any second now. Any moment... Brows furrowing, he watched warily for any sign of movement. Why the hell hadn't America tried to grab his hand yet? Not that he _wanted_ him to, or anything. He had an excuse ready as to why they _couldn't_ hold hands right now- he needed his hands free to look at the curtain rods- but, it was just...weird. It seemed like everytime he turned around America had been holding his hand, or had an arm around his shoulders, or holding him in his lap, or..._something_. No matter what was going on, America seemed to find some way to establish physical contact. Even the short walk to the coffeeshop at the front of the store, America had held his hand the whole way. Sure, he hadn't on the way back, but that was because Romano had made sure his hands were full to prevent it, but now his hands were free and America had a hand free and he was _waiting_ for the bastard to reach for him (not that he _wanted_ him to, of course) like he always did but America's arm was just _hanging_ there at his side, doing _nothing_.

He frowned, casually shifting a little closer to the other nation- not intentionally or anything, just, y'know, because it was uncomfortable standing in one place too long. He flexed his fingers, too- not to draw America's attention to the fact that his hand was free now, but because he wouldn't want to get a cramp in his hand, or anything like that.

Why the hell wasn't America trying to hold his hand? Their hands were only inches apart, but _nothing_. It wasn't like America was _doing_ anything with his own free hand, the idiot was just standing there sipping his disgusting coffee and staring blankly at the displays, mind apparently elsewhere. His frown deepened, and he worried his lip, glancing back down at America's hand, just hanging there by his side. Didn't he _want_ to hold his hand? Had he done something wrong? Maybe America had noticed that he'd been avoiding holding his hand on the way back, and gotten offended? Or maybe, maybe America just didn't _want_ to hold his hand anymore. Maybe he'd decided he didn't like it, or something.

He huffed minutely, and glared at the displays, shoulders drawing in slightly. Well, it wasn't like he wanted to hold hands _anyway, _dammit. It wasn't like it felt nice, or anything, even though it kind of did. Were his hands clammy, or something? He was pretty sure they weren't, but he surrepticiously wiped them on his trousers to be sure. Or, maybe America just didn't like his hands, for some reason? He looked down at them, examining both sides. He had pretty nice hands, right? _Good_ hands. Artist's hands. Sure, maybe they were a little rough; after all, he _was_ an agricultural nation, too- but he took good care of them, for all that. He'd always been a little proud of them, but maybe America didn't like the way they felt? But it hadn't seemed to bother the bastard earlier.

He bit his lip, clenching his hands nervously at his sides, and glanced back down at America's lone hand, hanging loosely by his side. Or maybe... maybe America was waiting for _him_ to make a move? Maybe it was his turn, or something. America _had_ been the one to initiate all their contact so far. Maybe he thought Romano didn't want to hold _his_ hand (which he didn't, of course). Had he missed a cue? After all, it's not like America was keeping his hand busy or anything so he didn't have to hold Romano's. It was just sitting there, doing nothing, looking kind of empty where it hung at America's side. Best friends held hands, right? So, they were probably supposed to take turns.

He reached out with his fingers, tentatively, and paused, curling them back. What if, what if he was wrong? What if America just didn't want to hold his hand? After all, America had always just reached for his hand before, and he hadn't now, so maybe...but, maybe America thought...but, what if he didn't..._arrrrrrghhh, dammit!_ He grabbed hold of America's hand, scowling. They were _best friends_, dammit, they were supposed to hold hands. If the stupid bastard didn't like it, he could just fucking _deal_.

America looked a little surprised for a second at the contact, and then he beamed down at him, squeezing his hand; and Romano relaxed, insides melting with relief. Okay. He hadn't fucked anything up. Good. That was good.

After a moment, America started bouncing a little on his toes, grinning like a maniac.

"What are you doing, bastard?" He asked, a little mystified.

"I just realized," America confided a little drunkenly, with a giddy smile and blush as he squeezed his hand again, "that this is the first time you've held my hand. I'm really kind of happy!"

"Wh-what are you talking about, idiot?" Romano's face flamed, "I, I've held your hand lots of times!"

"I've held _your_ hand." America corrected, giddy smile still in place. "But this is the first time you've held mine!"

For a moment Romano just stared at him. "Wh- wha...Y-..."

"Romano?"

"Y-you..." Trembling, Romano screwed his eyes shut, every inch of his skin flushing almost painfully hot, and took a deep, shuddering breath. "_Shit_." He dug the heel of his free hand into his eyes, growling. _"_You..._Shit! Chi, chigi!_"

"...Romano?" Smile fading, America took a tentative step forward, tilting his head in concern. "Are you _crying?"_

"_Chigi!"_ Romano scrubbed at his eyes with his free arm. "I..._chigi!"_

"Hey. Hey, you're _shaking._" America put his cup down on the shelf and stepped closer, reaching for him with his free arm. "What's wrong? Is it your stomach? Does it hurt again?"

"I, I don't-" Romano gasped, scrubbing at the tears which just kept coming as he choked out, "What are you trying to _do_ to me, bastard?"

"Romano? I don't understand." Pulling Romano closer, America ducked his head, trying to see his face better, hoping for a clue. "I'm not trying to do anythi-"

"Yes you are, yes you are," Romano sobbed, looking up at him, tears streaking his cheeks. "You keep, you keep _doing_ things like this, bastard, and, and I, I-"

"I don't understand, Romano. What did I do?" Worried, America lifted his hand from Romano's shoulder to touch his cheek, wipe at his tears. "I didn't mean to make you sad, I-"

"_Idiot_." Romano sniffed, and closed his eyes, reaching up to grab America behind the neck and pull him down, pressing their foreheads together. "_Idiot_. You're such an idiot."

"...Romano?" Tentatively, America cupped his face, releasing the hand he still held to bring it up, holding Romano's face in both hands, and Romano reached up his now-free hand to cup the base of his skull, fingers flexing in his hair. Romano was still trembling, and his eyes were shut tight, but...he was starting to think Romano wasn't _upset_, per se...he almost seemed...

Romano exhaled, slowly. "I hate you bastard." He breathed. "So much."

"Oh." _Oh. _Romano wasn't upset, he was _happy_. It was America's turn to relax, insides melting with warm relief. Okay. Good. That was good. He smiled, feeling kind of warm and light and glowy inside, and caressed Romano's cheekbones with his thumbs. Wiping the last traces of tears away, he chuckled softly, smiling fondly at the face he held. His best friend was just _so..._so _Romano_.

Releasing Romano's face, he slid his arms around his friend, pulling him into a hug. Romano's arms wound around his neck, his chin rested on his shoulder, and America sighed contentedly.

Soon Romano stopped trembling, and his residual sniffles died away, and he sighed. America tightened his arms briefly, nuzzling his hair, and Romano made a little humming sound, low in his throat, in response, his own arms tightening around America's neck. The sound made America's ear and spine tingle oddly, and something low in his stomach, too- sort of a tingling pressure. Suddenly, he felt extremely_ aware_ of Romano pressed against him, warm and breathing, wrapped in his arms, Romano's arms close around his neck, Romano's breath soft and hot on his skin, and the shell of his ear was brushing his jawline, velvet-soft.

"Hey, Romano?" America started, a little hesitantly.

"Mm?" Romano hummed, voice low, the tingling pressure in his lower stomach grew worse.

"I, uh, really have to go to the bathroom." America confessed, shifting. "I drank a lot of coffee, and I think I have to pee. Like, really bad."

"Oh. Nn, okay." Romano released his neck and pulled back in his arms, and wiped his face, nodding. "Yeah, I kind of have to go, too."

America stared at him, mesmerised. His best friend was unusually relaxed. Romano's dark brows were drawn together in their habitual furrow, true, but that was just Romano being Romano. But the tension he seemed to carry with him everywhere was gone, for the moment, and Romano's body was unusually relaxed and pliable in his arms, one hand resting lightly on America's bicep, and Romano was rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, lips pursed in a preoccupied little frown, and running his fingers through his hair, and looking for all the world like a little cat washing its face, and that was _adorable_ and Romano was wearing his jacket and that was adorable, too. Right now it seemed to America that he and his best friend were the only two people in the world, and Romano was warm and close and breathing and so _Romano_, and his ear had been so soft, and America found himself watching that little frown, wondering if Romano's lips were soft, too; and if Romano tasted the way he smelled, they _must_ be soft, because they _looked_ soft and Romano-

"Oi, bastard." Romano's hand was on his chest, pushing against him, and Romano was frowning up at him. "You're gonna have to let me go."

"What?" America blinked. "Oh! Oh, yeah. Sorry." He loosened his hold, and Romano withdrew from his arms.

America hesitated after Romano slid from his arms, a little unsettled. For some reason he hadn't realized he'd have to let Romano go— well, of _course _he did if he wanted to go to the bathroom, but...Romano wasn't in his arms, now, and had stepped away, and that felt...wrong, somehow. His gut was telling him Romano was supposed to be closer... but that didn't make sense. He couldn't hold Romano _and_ go to the bathroom, that was silly. He frowned a little, lowering his arms. He was still feeling a little dizzy, too. Weird. Maybe there was something wrong with the coffee he'd drank. Did coffee go bad?

"Bathroom, bastard?" Romano prompted, brow quirking.

"Oh, yeah." America shook himself, forgetting all the strange thoughts and feelings he'd been having, and smiled, holding out a hand for Romano to take. "Let's go."

Still, as Romano took his hand and they left the aisle, America couldn't shake the strange, nagging feeling in his gut that he'd missed some kind of opportunity.

* * *

_AN: One thing I love about Romano and America, but that also makes them a little difficult to write, is that they're both crybabies. Seriously, at the drop of a hat, waterworks (okay, usually Romano has a pretty good reason). I love it about them because they're so honest, and I respect a person who can express themselves so freely. America cries and gets over it, and Romano cries and...well, finds some way to hate himself for it. It's endearing. __I'm not very emotional (known for it), and I almost never cry, but I respect those who are and do and can. _

_Seriously, you gotta love a guy who's so happy to see his grandpa that he can't stop crying (and gets so embarrassed about being so happy that he goes and hides, but **still **yells at his grandpa from his hiding place to take a picture of himself to leave behind so he can have a picture of his grandpa anyway, even if it's not a picture of them together). _

_**BlakcFox4522** on Youtube has made some incredible Romerica videos, and has given me permission to link in my profile- so check them out! You'll be glad you did. _

_Sorry for making you wait so long! _


	38. Is He, or Isn't He?

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

_Switching it up a bit._

* * *

The birds sang cheerily in the trees, fluttering and twittering and generally enjoying being alive. The sun shone bright through the green leaves, casting dappled light and shadow over the garden, in which brilliant flowers greeted the world with fresh, sweet faces and fragrance. Occasionally a soft breeze would zephyr through the garden, and the leaves and flowers would dance, rejoicing in the warmth of the sun and cool earth in their roots and the sheer pleasure of being alive on such a _glorious_ day.

Balls to them, thought England, as his head gave a particularly vicious throb. What the devil did they have to be so happy about, anyway?

"Where did I go wrong?" He muttered, cradling his head. The sun was too bloody bright, it was hurting his eyes. And those damnable noisy birds were making his head throb. "He used to be such a sweet, obedient boy. What _happened?"_ He groaned, resting his forehead on folded arms. "Curse you, Lafayette!"

"Isn't it obvious, _Angleterre?" _France answered gaily, pouring his dearest enemy a cup of tea. "It's all your fault, of course."

England hunched deeper into his arms, suspecting it to be true. "Shut it, you wanker."

"He was such a darling child." France sighed, gazing dreamily into the garden, fiddling idly with the handle of his own cup as he reminisced. "So sweet and innocent, so eager to please."

"Precocious." England murmured, lifting his head, resting his chin on his arms as he likewise gazed at the flowers.

"Mm. He grew up so very fast." France's smile was a little melancholy. England hummed in agreement, his own mouth twisting a little regretfully. A soft breeze rustled the leaves of the trees for effect.

After a moment France shook himself, picking up his cup and sipping it for something to do. "Of course, who would have guessed he'd grow up to be so..._American." _He sniffed disdainfully. "I blame you _completely_."

"I get it, I get it!" England snapped, slamming his hand down on the table, jostling the settings. "It's all my fault! I don't need you to tell me that, idiot!"

"As long as you admit it, it's fine." France smirked. "But, it seems as though our little _Amerique_ didn't turn out as badly as we thought, hm? My influence has gotten through to him, after all!"

England hunched over in his seat, dark clouds seeming to gather around him. "This is all your fault." He grumbled accusingly. "You and that... _friend _of yours. You're doing this to get back at me, aren't you? It's a conspiracy, isn't it? The two of you were always trying to take America from me back then! And now you're working together to turn him against me again! " He jumped to his feet, face livid, and pointed accusingly at France. "Well the joke's on you, idiots! You're wasting your time! Fools! Hahaha! He turned against me on his own! He declared ind-_aack!_" He stopped, coughing furiously, hacking up blood all over the tablecloth.

"England!" Leaping to his own feet, France snatched a napkin from the table and pressed it to the island nation's mouth, rubbing his back soothingly. "_Honestly_." He scolded as he cleaned the Englishman off. "You get worked up over the _silliest_ things. Nobody is conspiring against you. At least, " he amended, wiping the last of the blood from England's lips, "not about this. Did it ever occur to you that perhaps America might genuinely have feelings for South Italy? That he might truly be in love?"

"He _can't_ be." England scoffed, brushing off France's ministrations. Taking the napkin from France's hands with a nod of thanks, he wiped at the spots of blood on his jacket, trying to recover his lost dignity. "He's far too young for that sort of thing. Besides, he's an idiot."

"Even an idiot can fall in love." France settled back into his seat, leaning his chin in his hand with a smile. "You should know that best of all, my dear _chenille d'or_."

"D- don't call me that." England blushed, settling back down. "And that doesn't change the fact that he's _too young_."

"America's been grown for quite some time, England. It's time to face the fact that our little boy has finally become a man, don't you think?"

"Pffft." England waved dismissively. "He may look grown on the outside, but inside he's just the same as ever. He's still a child, for all that he looks like an adult. He's barely a few centuries old. Do you remember what _we_ were doing at his age?"

"Ah." France's lips quirked up, eyes sparkling at old memories. "I was trying to teach you that pebbles were not food. You were always trying to stick the oddest things into your mouth, _Angleterre_. An adorable child, but _no_ sense of taste. You haven't changed a bit."

"Shut up you idiot, there's nothing wrong with my sense of taste." England frowned in irritation. "My _point_ is that we were both children. Babies, really. Scarcely out of diapers."

France grinned. "_You_-"

"_Shut it_._"_ England cut him off, with a brief blush and a scowl. "America's simply not old enough. There's all there is to it."

"I don't remember you having any such objections to Canada's relationship." France observed.

"Who- Oh yes, Canada." England recalled, then frowned, eyes narrowing. "Canada's in a relationship? With whom?"

France blinked at him. "Sometimes, England, you really are an idiot." He said flatly. "You've been calling the boy every day this past week to harass him about his brother's love life, and you don't even know whether or not he's seeing someone himself?"

"Ah, well..." England dithered, flushing embarrassedly, and made a mental note to thoroughly investigate the matter later. "It, ah, never came up. Besides, it's different. Canada's always been... more mature. Stable."

"He _is_ fairly boring." France agreed, sighing. "Hardly noticeable at all. He gets that from you, you know."

"Excuse _me?_" England scowled, affronted. "I'm _very_ noticeable, thank you!"

"Only because of your _terrible_ attitude." France countered. "With your unremarkable appearance you'd just fade into the background if you weren't so disagreeable. Your bad personality and regrettable taste saves you from a life of obscurity, England~."

"I do _not_ have a bad personality!" England shouted, jostling the table as he stood, slamming his hands on the table once more. "Just because I'm not a flamboyant, effeminate pervert like _you_!"

"There you go, losing your temper over absolutely nothing, yet again." France chided, frowning as he steadied the table settings, 'rescuing' them from England's outburst. "You're going to _ruin_ my good china. I don't know why I bothered to bring it out, such delicate things are _wasted_ on a delinquent like you. This is my _favourite_ set, too."

"Ah, I-" England began to apologize, looking briefly sheepish as he helped straighten the scattered tableware, but his expression changed instanty when he caught sight of the pattern. "I seem to remember that I'm the one who _gave_ this set to you." He pointed out, huffing smugly and crossing his arms. "I think that proves that I'm not as indelicate as you suggest."

"Ah, so you did." France allowed with a moment's surprise, examining the china. "I had forgotten. How odd." Then he shrugged, waving it off, trying not to look as irritated as he felt over this slip. "Well, even a stopped clock is right twice a day."

"You just don't want to admit that I'm more refined than you think." England settled back in his seat once more, smug smile still in place as he recovered his teacup. "I'm a bloody _gentleman,_ and don't you forget it."

"You must still be hung over, you're talking nonsense." France attempted to disguise his annoyance, busying himself with arranging several delicious-looking pastries on a couple of small plates for himself and his guest. "Have some more tea, it'll bring you to your senses."

England chuckled gloatingly as he poured himself some more tea, enjoying his minor victory. "Ah," he realized when he'd finished, "we've gotten off-track. What are we going to do about this situation with America?"

"'Do?' Why should we 'do' anything?" France asked, setting the plates down. "America is an _adult_, England." He insisted, cutting off England's reply. "Or close enough to, anyway. He's been independant for quite some time now, and has managed fairly well on his own, with little interference from you or I. I understand your concerns," he added more gently, as England made to protest again, "but our opinion hardly matters in this matter. America has always done as he pleases, without seeking approval from anyone else. Why should this be any different?"

"But he's so _young_." England complained, almost pleading. "He's not _ready_ for this."

"Who is?" France replied, with a bittersweet smile.

"He's going to get hurt."

"Possibly. But he's been hurt before, and recovered. He's stronger than you give him credit for, England."

"That's different. You know it is. It's just not the same thing. He's too naive. Too trusting! He thinks the world is heroes and happy endings, and everything will turn out alright in the end. He just doesn't understand that the world isn't that kind."

"But that's what we love about him, is it not?" France smiled again, shaking his head at England's overprotective cynicism. He always got so worked up when this particular former colony was involved. "Besides, I think you're underestimating our dear boy. He's not as naive as you think."

"So you say." England frowned, unconvinced. "What if it's all a trick? A plot, from Spain. You know he's been itching to get back at us for everything that happened during that time."

"Spain is completely unaware of the situation, as yet." France informed him. "I've been trying to get ahold of him, but he hasn't been answering his phone." He pursed his lips in exasperation. "Knowing him, he's gone and lost it somewhere again."

"...Spain doesn't know? You're _sure?_"

"Not an inkling. In fact, North Italy informed me that he's made Prussia promise not to tell Spain, because he believed Spain would be upset, and interfere."

"...He did? Well, that's something, at least."

"So it's not his choice in partners that bothers you?" France pressed, curious. He'd been wondering about this. "You have no objections to South Italy?"

England frowned thoughtfully, sipping his tea. "I have nothing in particular against South Italy." He allowed after a moment's consideration. "He seems like a nice enough lad. A bit stroppy, perhaps, but that's understandable under the circumstances. Having been under Spanish rule would do that to anybody. And America could benefit from a partner who won't sit back and take his shit quietly." He settled back in his seat, balancing his saucer on his knee as he thought further. "He's in the G-8, he's cultured, fashionable, well-educated, he goes to church regularly; for heaven's sake, he houses the _Pope_._"_

"His climate is pleasant, if a bit warm for my tastes, his language is beautiful, his lands even more so, his architecture is breathtaking. There's that little trouble with the mafia, but it's nothing America wouldn't be able to handle. In fact I'm sure he'd love the chance to 'play the hero', as it were." He added a little sardonically, rolling his eyes."In all honesty it's quite easy to see why America would be interested. The real question is: what on earth would South Italy_ possibly_ see in _America_, of all people? The boy's an idiot."

"It _is_ strange, isn't it?" France hummed in agreement. "I've been trying to get my hands on South Italy for _ages._ Alas, he always screams and runs whenever he sees me coming."

"Which goes to show he's got a good head on his shoulders." England said drily, causing France to pout. "If he's got enough sense to be terrified of you, then he's rather smarter than his brother."

"So cruel." France sighed woefully. "Still, it may interest you to know that North Italy believes that South Italy has become quite attached to our little America. In fact, both of them seem to have developed a fondness for him, so much so that they've taken to referring to him as a 'puppy'."

"Wha-haha!" England sputtered into his tea, and grabbed for a napkin. "P-puppy America! That's, that's RICH! Oh, that's great! It suits him!" His laughter continued as he dried himself off. "I can just see it, too- the floppy ears and everything, oh. That's perfect. Why didn't I think of that? A 'puppy' indeed'." He shook his head, chuckling. "Well, perhaps I've been a touch too hasty in my judgement. If it turns out that they genuinely care for each other, and it's not a plot or a scheme, then who am I to stand in the way of America's happiness? He's still too young, in my opinion, but he always did tend to grow up in ridiculously sudden spurts. Perhaps this is just another such instance."

"So you've withdrawn your objections?" France questioned, with slight eagerness.

"I'm withholding my judgement until I've seen matters for myself." England corrected. "I'm not all for it, but I'm not entirely against it, either."

"That's wonderful!" France exclaimed, clasping his hands. "I knew you'd come around, _Angleterre._ Love always wins out in the end."

"He gets that romantic streak from you." England snorted, rolling his eyes. "We'll have a talk with them both at the G-8 meeting this coming Wednesday, that's soon enough. See what South Italy's intentions are, and remind America to take things slow. There's no need to rush into intimacy, after all. I know he can be a bit...impulsive, but we wouldn't want him to do anything that he might regret."

"Oh, but England, didn't you know?" France grinned, leaning over the table. "They've _already_ spent the night together, at least once!"

"_What? _I-impossible! They've only just started dating, haven't they? Where did you hear that?"

"North Italy! America spent the night with South Italy after their first date, and North Italy had to bring him Germany's clothes the next morning! I hear that they were even in the shower together! And America has invited South Italy to stay with him this entire week, if not longer!" He beamed proudly, wriggling with joy. "It's _l'amour!"_

"No! I won't allow it, dammit! It's far too soon! He's just a baby!" England howled, pounding the table. "I'M AGAINST IT AFTER ALL!"

* * *

Canada frowned determinedly as he pulled into the driveway of his brother's house. He had some things to discuss with America. He'd been _trying_ to reach him for _days_, even though he was busy with his own preparations to host the upcoming G-8 meeting, but America hadn't been taking his calls or returning his messages. It wasn't like his brother, and he was going to find out what the... _heck_ was going on with him, even if it meant he had to drag his brother out of bed.

Psyching himself up, he cut the engine and stepped out of the car, fingering his keys as he psyched himself up. He'd arrived a bit earlier than he'd expected and it was still quite dark out, but the lights in America's house were on, so he was probably up already. Or had stayed up all night, that wasn't unusual either.

He rang the doorbell a few times, but no-one answered, so he went inside (America's door was usually unlocked, his brother loved visitors. He liked to joke that he had an 'open door policy'). "America? A-america?" He called tentatively as he entered. "America, it's me, Canada." He paused. "You know, your brother?" He added helpfully after a moment, just in case America needed additonal clarification. Again, no response. His brother either couldn't hear him, or was ignoring him, or wasn't home. Well, even if America couldn't hear him, Tony— no wait, America had mentioned at the last meeting that Tony was away for a while, on a mission or something. Drat.

Hm. Maybe America had fallen asleep on the couch again? He tended to lose track of time when he was playing videogames or watching movies and end up sprawled and drooling on the couch. A quick scan of the living room turned up nothing there, except a pad of paper on the coffeetable with some scribbles on it. He picked it up, just in case it could give him a clue to what his brother was up to. America liked to make lists and doodle when he was making plans or thinking.

He stared at the pad of paper, eyebrows slowly climbing. He flipped a page. Then another. That was blank, so he flipped back to the first one, briefly scanning a page covered in little doodles of handcuffs and donuts and cowboy hats, but most of all covered in names. Well, _a_ name. _Lovino Vargas_, and variations thereof, filled every inch of the paper not otherwise occupied by doodles. Who the _hell_ was Lovino Vargas, and why hadn't he heard anything about her before now?

Frowning a little, he flipped to the second page. Lovi Jones, Alfred _Vargas? _...Alfred and Lovino_ Vargas-Jones?_ He pursed his lips thoughtfully at the writing, heavily underlined and surrounded by a multitude of little stars, concern rising. Surely America wasn't thinking of _proposing._ _Already? _Who was this hussy moving in on his brother?

Ah- no, no, he was beginning to sound like England. He rubbed his temple, calming himself down. He didn't know anything about this girl. For all he knew she could be very nice. It was obvious that his brother... thought highly of her. She must be very special, to catch his brother's attention. Someone smart, and clever, with a great sense of humour and movie-star good looks. They had probably met saving a lost puppy, or something, and fallen instantly in love. And now they were going to get married and raise orphans and lost baby animals together. Or maybe she was a secret agent, and America had been assigned to pretend to be her husband as a cover for a super-secret mission, and they had fallen in love at first sight, and were thinking of getting married for real to fight crime together as super-secret undercover agents!

...Okay, now _that_ was just silly.

He sighed, putting the pad away in the side-table drawer. Of course, knowing America it was just a character from a book or a videogame. Perhaps a movie he was working on, or something. Or some of that 'fanfiction' he'd mentioned a while back, where people wrote themselves into their favourite books or TV shows. He was probably just reading too much into things. Overreacting. He was just on edge from the stress of hosting the upcoming meeting, and his brother not returning his calls, and England and France's constant calls and allegations.

France and England had been under the impression that— well, not that he put much stock in _that_ anyway. This hadn't been the first time those two had jumped to conclusions about an alleged 'relationship' America was having, and he was sure it wouldn't be the last. It'd never been true before, and he was pretty sure this would turn out to be yet another of France's little pranks, aided by Prussia and possibly even Spain. Sure, the pictures had been pretty convincing, but he wouldn't have put it past his boyfriend to have photoshopped them, that was the sort of thing he got a kick out of.

America just wasn't _interested_ in that sort of thing. Never had been. The idiot couldn't even tell when he was being _hit on_, ninety percent of the time. By this point, Canada was convinced his brother was asexual. This whole thing was probably some big misunderstanding, or a joke, or something. America was probably just avoiding his calls because he was sulking over the fact that Canada had cancelled their brother-bonding time to spend more time with Prussia, yet _again_. Canada felt a little guilty about that— he _had_ been cancelling on America quite often, lately. But he was here now, so they could spend time together and America would stop sulking, and assure him that there was no girl, and that France and England were 'on crack', as usual. His brother didn't seem to be home right now, but he was probably running to the store or one of his favourite fast food places to pick up some breakfast; his usual recourse for meals. No doubt he'd be back soon.

In the meantime he would make breakfast while he waited for America to get home, a _real_ breakfast. A _big_ breakfast, like his brother liked. And then America would come home, and they'd put away whatever junk food he'd picked up, and they'd talk and America would laugh, ruffle his hair in that way that annoyed the crap out of him (but he secretly really liked) and tell him that everything was the same as ever. And then they'd eat breakfast and watch Saturday Morning Cartoons together, and everything would be alright.

* * *

_AN: No, I haven't forgotten him/them/it, it just hasn't come up yet. _

_Ahh, England. One of the things that always makes me laugh (in that 'you poor bastard' sort of way) is how many times he ends up coughing up blood due to his stress over America's independance. Usually when he's trying to hard to play it cool and adult. "I'm totally fine with- haaacccckkk!" I'm totally with his boss on this one: don't push yourself, England!_

_France, France, don't mislead the poor guy, he's having a hard enough time dealing with this as it is. Still, at least he didn't tell him about the pictures. Yet._


	39. Blush 'n' Plush

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

_It's been a while since I've posted a chapter this short. It's been an eventful couple of weeks, and alas, I haven't had much time to write. So here's a tidbit to tide you over. Just a bunch of fluff, really.__ Hope this finds you well!_

* * *

America frowned a little as he went through the motions of washing his hands, staring, unseeing, at the bathroom sink. He hadn't had to go as badly as he'd thought. In fact, before they'd even reached the bathrooms the tingling pressure in his lower stomach had disappeared; but he'd gone anyway, just in case. The dizziness had cleared up, too, though he still felt a little off-kilter. Like he'd missed something important. It was weird.

Oh well, there was no sense worrying about it. It'd take care of itself.

He glanced at Romano's reflection in the mirror. Romano's back was to him as he stood at the urinal, the ends of his dark hair brushing the collar of America's jacket. Ever since they'd left the aisle, America had been ... well, it seemed like he was extremely _aware_ of Romano. He'd always _noticed_ Romano, ever since the meeting; and noticed things _about_ Romano when he'd watched him, but this was ...different. Even when he wasn't looking at Romano, he was... aware of where Romano was, of his presence, like...like he was _attuned_ to his best friend, in a new way. Drawn to him. Was there a word for that feeling? It was like...like his senses were a compass needle, and Romano was magnetic north. America felt that if he closed his eyes, or if he was in total darkness, he would still be able to feel Romano in the room, and know where he was; like when he was out in the forest and felt the trees around him, and his lands stretching out and his people and-

"You know, bastard," Romano's voice shattered his musings, and he looked over his shoulder to see his best friend turn from the urinal, zipping his pants, "this reminds me, there's no bidet in my bathroom. We'll have to look at those next."

America blinked, nonplussed. "A what?"

"A bidet." Romano turned on the sink to wash his hands, and pumped the soap, frowning. "You forgot to put one in when you built the bathroom."

"A what?" America repeated.

"You know, a _bidet."_ Romano looked at him oddly. Seeing America's blank expression he frowned, turning off the water, and reached for the towels. "Don't you know what a bidet is, idiot?"

America thought for a moment, brows furrowing. "...No?"

Romano halted in his drying, one eyebrow slowly climbing. "You're kidding."

America glanced away, and back at him, uncertain what the big deal was. Was he missing something?

"...You're _kidding_." Romano repeated disbelievingly, resuming his drying. "You're fucking kidding me, bastard. You seriously don't know what a bidet is?"

"Um, no?" America confessed, confusion increasing at Romano's reaction. "Why, what is it?"

"It's..." Romano gestured vaguely, still unable to believe he had to explain this, "It's a bathroom fixture. You use it to get clean."

"You mean a sink?" America hazarded, brows furrowing further.

"_No_." Romano's frown deepened, and he blushed, starting to get embarrassed. "How do you not know what one is? I thought you spent a lot of time with France."

"France?" America cocked his head, wondering what France had to do with— _oh_. Oh! He snapped his fingers, comprehension dawning. "_Oh_, you mean that thing you use to prepare for sex!" Then his eyes widened, and he covered his mouth with a hand, face flaming.

Romano's mouth dropped open, and his face flamed, too. "Wh-what? _NO!_" He flailed, mortified. "Wh-wh-why would you- _auuugh!"_ Unable to deal with the embarrassment, he darted into a bathroom stall, slamming the door behind him.

Deeply embarrassed himself, America spun around and faced the wall, crouching and covering his mouth with both hands, eyes wide and staring. His cheeks and ears _burned_. He couldn't remember ever having been so embarrassed in his _life;_ not when France had blackmailed him into wearing that stupid costume (the costume hadn't been too bad, but how had France gotten that _picture?_), not when England had almost told the entire G-8 that he used to wet the bed, not even- _auugh! _He covered his head with both arms and mentally whimpered, squirming inside with white hot embarrassment.

"Why would you say something like that, idiot! _Chigi!_" Romano yelled from where he was pressed against the wall of the bathroom stall.

"That's what France told me it was for!" America yelled back, squeezing his eyes shut tight.

"Why would you listen to France!"

"He's the only one I know who uses one! I've never heard of them before!"

"Well France is a perverted idiot!"

"I know but he's the only one who told me about them!"

"Well he's a perverted liar!"

"How was I supposed to know!"

There was several long moments of hot, embarrassed silence.

"...So what are they for if they're not for...that?" America asked cautiously, hushed voice echoing off the cold, tiled walls of the bathroom.

Romano shifted, fingers flexing on the tiles. "It's for...getting clean. Not...that thing you said, just...to be clean. It's..."

There was a few more seconds of mutually embarrassed silence.

"Oh."

After a little while longer America opened his eyes, and cleared his throat.

"Well...I don't think they have them...in the, uh... store. We don't, uh...we don't use them much...here. We, we could probably get one online, though."

"...O-okay."

"Okay." America draped his hands across his knees, staring at the floor. This was starting to feel awkward. Sitting on his haunches was bending his shoes uncomfortably, and they were totally digging into the top of his feet. And his waistband was riding down in back, which felt weird. He sighed and stood, hitching his pants back up, and ran a hand through his hair.

"So..." He said, turning around again, turning his head to gaze nonchalantly at the exit, "is, uh, there anything else you want to look at here?"

"Mm, well," Romano answered, slowly opening the stall door and coming out, looking at something very interesting on the floor, tile grout probably, "I s'pose I could look at bedding. Sheets and stuff."

"Okay. That's not far from here." America nodded without looking around, and held out his hand. Romano took it, and they exited the bathroom, avoiding each other's gaze.

They walked in silence for a while, America glancing down the aisles as they passed, occasionally checking the signs to make sure he was going the right way and, you know, looked busy and nonchalant and not-at-all awkward and kind of post-embarrassed. For his part, Romano stared at random objects or nothing in particular as they passed, pretending to be interested in the products, and trying to look like he was deep in thought making redecoration plans.

As they crossed the center aisle between Toys and Hardware, America paused, brightening.

"Hey, haha! Romano, look at this!" Romano found himself being dragged along again as America veered hard off-course, having caught sight of something of interest down a toy aisle. He stopped short in front of a shelf about halfway down (forcing Romano to slam on his metaphorical brakes in order to avoid running into him), and released him to grab something off the shelf, turning to present it to Romano with an excited grin. "It's a moose! Isn't it cute?"

Romano blinked into the small, plush face, floppy horns sitting atop its head along with a tiny pair of fuzzy ears. A moose toy? He took it from America's grasp, squeezing the soft body, toying with the fuzzy antlers.

"Do you like it?" America asked eagerly. "We can get it if you want!"

"Why would I want a toy moose, bastard?" Romano wondered, turning it over and poking the fuzzy belly, playing with its hooves.

"'Cause it's cute! And you seem to be interested in moose." America turned back to the shelves, looking at the selection of stuffed toys. "They might have an elephant here too, if you'd rather have one of those."

"What would I do with a stuffed animal, bastard?" Romano wondered again, moulding the soft body in his hands. "I'm not a kid anymore." Not that they'd had these sort of things back when he _had_ been.

"You don't have to be a kid to enjoy stuffed animals!" America countered, pausing in his exploration to squeeze a plush penguin. "They're for everybody!"

"Hm." Romano stared down at the stuffed moose he held. Something about the tousled brown fur and the whimsical expression reminded him a little of Spain, actually. Now that he thought about it, "Spain would probably like something like this." He admitted, shaking it and watching its little head nod happily, antlers flopping.

"Yeah? Wanna get it for him?" America glanced over his shoulder, the epic battle between stuffed penguin and dinosaur raging on in his hands. "Like a souvenir or somethin'?"

Romano debated for a moment, then nodded, tucking the moose under his arm. "...Yeah, sure."

"Okay." The penguin was winning, but the T-rex was working on an alliance with a stuffed lion that just might turn the tide.

"Feliciano might like an elephant, too." Romano decided, going up on his tiptoes to look over the sea of stuffed toys.

"Okay. One sec, I'll see what they got." Oh no! It was too late- the penguin's teddybear cohorts arrived on the scene, and the T-rex suffered crushing defeat. "Raaaahhhrrrghghgh." America roared quietly, miming the death of the dinosaur, and dropped the toys, resuming his search. "Hmmm... Ah, there's two elephants. Which one do you want?" He presented two stuffed elephants for Romano's inspection, a little fat one with great big ears, and a softer-looking plush with a silly expression similar to the moose's.

"Uh, this one." Romano chose the second one, and America nodded, putting the first one back.

"That's made by the same company as the moose, I think. They do good plush. We should get one for Germany!" He dug through the rack, looking for a toy for Germany. "What kind of animals does he like?"

"Dogs and cats." Romano answered absently, squeezing the elephant. Yeah, definitely Feliciano. Same silly expression, like it was happy to see you and wanted to play. Feliciano would love it.

"There's a ton of dogs." America said, picking one up and looking at it, then putting it aside for consideration. "What type of dog does he like best? I think the German Shepherd and the Retriever are pretty cute, but- _oohhh_, there's a husky puppy! Awwww, it's so cute! Look Romano, isn't it cute? It looks like a little wolf!"

"Yeah, it's pretty cute." Romano admitted a little reluctantly, unable to deny the cuteness of the wolfish puppy face.

"It's soft, too!" America said, rubbing his cheek against it, and reached out, rubbing it against Romano's cheek as well. "Feel!"

"It's soft, bastard." Romano acknowledged, taking the super-soft stuffed pup from America and holding it close (not hugging it, just, you know, so it wouldn't drop on the floor and get dirty). He tucked it into the front of his jacket, the little head above the zipper so it could still see.

"You think Germany would like it?" America asked, sorting through the collection of dogs just in case.

"What? No!" Romano protested, looking up from his new dog. "He doesn't deserve something this cute! You can get that bastard something else." Then he scowled, folding his arms. "Wait, why are you getting something for that jerk, anyway? We don't need to get him anything!"

"I just thought it would be nice." America explained, picking up the German Shepherd. "If you want the husky puppy we can get him the German Shepherd, it's pretty cute, too. Anyone else we should- HA!" He tucked the dog under his arm and pounced on something on the shelf, cackling with glee. "They have a green bunny! I'm SO getting this for England, hahaha!" He grinned, brandished the mint-green rabbit, waving it victoriously. "He'll love it! Or, he'll say it's childish and stupid and hide it in his bedroom to cuddle, same thing."

"...Alright." Romano quirked an eyebrow, and shrugged, not really caring either way about England's potential reaction to the toy rabbit. "You done then, bastard?"  
"Yeah, I'm good." America nodded, tucking the stuffed animals into the hood of his hoodie. "Let's go look at bed stuff."

"Nn." Romano agreed, taking his hand as they returned to their previously scheduled itinerary.

* * *

_AN: Bidets. My dad, who is a lot like France in some ways, explained them to me that way the first time I saw one. While he's not wrong, he's not right, either. They can be used for such purposes, but they're also often used as a sort of utility sink- for soaking your feet or clothes, or so forth, and of course, as Romano puts it, for 'getting clean'. Americans, on the whole, are horrified and disgusted when they first encounter bidets. Europeans, Middle Easterners and people from other places where they generally use bidets are likewise deeply horrifed and disgusted when they discover that American's **don't **have/use them. Savages! Sitting in their own filth! Etc. It's...well, I can see it both ways, personally. On the hygiene side I'm definitely in favour._

_Anyone who has worked retail can tell you that you don't have to be a kid to play with toys. Maybe it's just Americans, but we never really seem to lose touch with our inner child. One of our strengths, I think. XD (That and it's just really fun.)_


	40. It May Not Be Velveteen, But

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

_Hi! How **you** doin'?_

_Be prepared for a rapid tense change. It came out that way, I'm not sure why._

* * *

"Does this happen a lot, America?" Romano stares out the window of the truck at the torrents of water coming down outside. It'd started raining shortly after they'd left the last store, and they'd had to run to make it to the vehicle before they got soaked. Romano managed to make it into his seat before he got more than slightly damp, but America, who stayed outside to pull a tarp over the back of the truck, is _drenched._

"Not a lot, but sometimes." America admits as he starts the truck, shivering a bit as water drips from his hair and chin and nose and...well, all of him, really. He leans forward with a squelchy, wet sound, and flips on the heat in the cab. "The forecast said we'd get some light showers today, but nothing like this." He sniffs, wiping his nose on his sleeve, and pulls off his glasses to squint at the lenses, which have fogged up rapidly. He attempts to dry them off with his sodden hoodie, but only succeeds in smearing more water onto them.

"Give me those." Romano swipes Texas, and pulls the hem of his shirt out from under the bomber which has kept him mostly warm and dry to wipe them off, handing them back once they're clean.

"Thanks." America sniffs, putting them on and slicking the wet hair back, out of his face. Now that he can see, he puts the truck in gear and gets underway. "I managed to get the tarp over everything before it really started coming down, so it should all be okay. And all the stuff we bought at the last store is in plastic, so it's all good. You wanna go anywhere else?"

"No." Romano answers readily. Honestly, between Feliciano yesterday and the last several hours, he's all shopped out. "Let's just go back."

"Ok." America nods, a little relieved. He's not used to shopping for hours on end, and he wouldn't mind it if he doesn't see the inside of another store for a while. "Wanna stop on the way back and grab something to eat? There's a couple fast food places on the way that'll be open."

"Sure." Romano agrees unthinkingly, and then he comes to his senses. "No, wait- let's just go back, bastard. I'll, uh, cook something."

"You sure?" America asks, a little hopefully. He likes fast food, but the prospect of a home-cooked meal (_Romano's_ home-cooked meal) is too good to pass up. But still, "I don't want to put you out or anything. You're my guest."

_And I don't want to die of food poisoning,_ Romano thinks, but says, "Yeah, I'm sure." Sure, he doesn't usually cook if there's someone around to do it for him, but, well... America seems to enjoy his cooking, and...it's not like he took Amata's advice to heart or anything, it's just that he's a little afraid to eat anything America might consider food. He likes living. He's gotten used to it, and would like it to continue.

"Yay!" Cheers America, bouncing a little in his seat in his enthusiasm. "What're you gonna make?"

Romano shrugs. Pasta, probably. "Dunno, bastard. I'll decide when I see what you got."

"'Kay. Anything you make'll be good." America enthuses, eyes on the road. "I bet you could make _amazing_ burgers."

Romano shudders. He probably could, but he's not eager to find out.

The rain's coming down so thick that they can't see more than a foot or two around them in any direction. Romano's not sure how America is managing to drive in this weather when _he_ can't see the road in all the rain and darkness, the headlights just seem to illuminate a wall of water; but he's reluctant to ask in case he distracts him from however he's doing it and they end up going off the road and being devoured by wild mooses. Moose. Whatever.

He covers the eyes of the stuffed pup still tucked in the collar of his jacket so it doesn't have to see the danger they're in, and America notices the action. His lips quirk up. "You really like that little guy, huh?"

"What? ...No." Romano responds a little defensively, pulling the toy out of his jacket to look at. "It's alright, I guess."

"What're you gonna name it?" America asks, eyes back on the invisible road.

"Name it?" Romano looks at him quizzically. "It's a _toy_, bastard. Why would I name it?"

"Why not?" America shrugs a shoulder. "All good stuffed animals need a name."

"Why?" Romano repeats, staring at the pup in his hands. Brown glass eyes gleam back at him in the dim cab. "It's not like it's alive."

"Could be, you never know." America says, somewhat mysteriously. Then he grins, and shrugs again. "I don't know why, really. But it's something you do. Besides, naming it makes it more..." he flaps a hand vaguely, "yours."

"Che, that's ridiculous." Romano scoffs a little dubiously, not really sure if it was. He ruffled the soft plush fur, thinking. "What would I name it?"

"I dunno. Pal?"

Romano frowns. "That's a stupid name."

"Hey, I used to work with a dog named Pal." America defends mildly. "He was really sweet. But if you don't like that, you can always think of somethin' else. A favourite food, or somethin' he reminds you of, or someone you know, something like that. Make one up."

Romano purses his lips pensively, squeezing the toy. America was right, the husky pup does look a bit like a wolf. And even though it's _not_ alive, its brown eyes seem warm and playful, and its sewn-on smile and ruffled plush fur make it look a little scruffy and curious and mischievious. "He kinda reminds me of my grandpa..." He admits after a while.

"Yeah?" America glances over curiously out of the corner of his eye. "I didn't know you had a grandpa. That's so cool! So you gonna name it after him?"

"I dunno." Romano's lips purse further. "It's kind of a big name for such a little bastard."

"How 'bout 'Grandpa' then? Or 'Pops', or somethin'." Romano wrinkles his nose, and America chuckles. "Alright then. How do you say 'Grandpa' in Italian?"

"_Nonno._" Romano answers, squeezing the pups snowy paws. It might remind him a little of Grandpa Rome, but it's a puppy, so it's kind of hard to think of it as a 'grandpa'. "I dunno, though..."

"Jii-chan? That's how you say Grandpa in Japan."

"Jii-chan?" That's kind of cute, actually. Grandpa Rome, Jii-chan Rome. No, wait, he remembers Japan trying to explain to Feliciano that titles were the other way around in Japan, so it'd be Rome Jii-chan, wouldn't it? Jii-chan for short. He nods. "Okay. Jii-chan."

"I like it!" America approves, giving him a thumbs-up. "It's cute. Lil' Jii-chan!"

Fighting back a smile, Romano sets Jii-chan on the dashboard, where its soft legs splay out underneath it so it sprawls across the surface a little lazily. And _that_ reminds him so much of the way Grandpa Rome used to sprawl in his senate seat that the smile breaks through anyway. America grins at them both.

Then a flash of lightning splits the sky, and a clap of thunder, and Romano startles in his seat, eyes wide, snatching the toy from the dashboard and holding it close, not because it's kind of comforting, but so Jii-chan won't get scared. (Not that the stuffed animal is real, or anything. He's just humouring America.)

"You scared of storms, Romano?" America asks, noticing the reaction with concern.

"No." Romano says, truthfully. He's not afraid of storms, but that was kind of unexpected. He relaxes a little, petting Jii-chan in case he'd- _it_'d gotten scared. "I just wasn't expecting that."

"Yeah, kinda came out of the blue there." America peers out the windshield, trying to see a sky obscured by sheets of water. "Don't know where this storm is coming from, aside from a little rain in the morning it was supposed to be pretty nice today. It's kind of weird. Sorry about that."

"What are you sorry for, idiot? It's not like you can control the weather." Romano responds, mimicking America's action with about as much success. "How can you even _see_ in this?"

"Oh, I can't." America explains flippantly. "I'm just guessing where the road is."

Romano's head snaps 'round to gape at him in mingled horror and disbelief.

"Just kidding." America laughs, and flinches, laughing harder, when Romano head butts his shoulder with a growl of _'Bastard!'_ (though the seatbelt prevents him from performing the punitive action to its full effect).

"Sorry, sorry!" America chuckles, lifting a hand in defense. "I was just messin' around."

"Jerk." Romano mutters, settling back into his seat.

"Sorry." America grins, amused and apologetic. "Seriously though, I just have a lot of experience driving in the rain. I do it a lot."

"I thought you said it didn't do this much here." Romano says.

"Not in this state, yeah." America agrees. "But in some of my other states it rains a lot. Depends where you are."

"Oh."

"And I have this road memorized." America adds. "I helped build it, and it hasn't changed much over the years."

"Oh." Romano wouldn't admit it out loud, but that _is_ a little reassuring. He knows his streets like he knows his favourite recipes, like he knows the (metaphorical _and_ literal) back of his hand, and it helps to be reminded that even though it's unfamiliar to him, this is home territory for America.

Still, Romano breathes a sigh of relief when they finally pull into the driveway of America's house about half an hour later. He runs to the house under the shelter of a compact umbrella America digs out from the glove compartment under the candy they didn't finish earlier, Jii-chan tucked safely into the front of his jacket, while America retrieves their purchases from the truck. When Romano opens the door and steps inside, though, America is already there ahead of him, entering the hall from the living room.

Romano stops in his tracks. Is this some kind of prank? He glances back into the rainy darkness outside where he knows America's supposed to be, and again at America, stepping into the hallway a few meters away. "What the hell-"

Then America looks up at the sound, and Romano stops, realizing it isn't America, after all. Similar, almost identical- but there are differences. This person is a little paler, a tiny bit slimmer, with longer, silkier-looking hair, and a different errant strand of hair entirely. Lavender eyes, not blue, widen upon seeing him, and not-America pulls back in surprise, blushing. His shoulders draw in almost imperceptibly as he subconsciously tries to make himself smaller, non-threatening.

The body language is far too submissive to be America's, who meets everything with a confident stance and eager smile. 'Just like me, but sissy' Romano remembers. This must be America's brother, then. Not-America- er, America's little brother- runs a hand through his hair (a gesture almost identical to the one America uses often, but that again, carries subtle differences which speak volumes) and smiles shyly, burying his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie. "H-hello," He says softly, _pianissimo_ to America's _forte_, "I'm sorry, I didn't know America had company. I'm America's brother, Ca- "

"WHOO!" America shouts from the doorway, causing the other two to jump in surprise. "It's _pouring_ out there! I'm fuckin' _soaked!"_ He drops the mountain of bags and boxes he's carrying onto the floor with a wet clatter, and whips off his glasses to shake his head vigorously, splattering everything in the vicinity with cold water.

"Augh!" Romano throws up his arms to shield himself from the assault, but it's too late. "Dammit!"

"Hahaha, whoops!" America laughs, sliding his glasses back on as water runs off him in little rivulets and puddles on the floor, enjoying himself entirely too much, in Romano's opinion. "Did I getcha?"

"What the hell do you _think_, bastard?" Romano grumbles, wiping water from his face.

"_America_." America's brother chides, sounding slightly exasperated as he moves towards them. "You shouldn't-"

"CANADA!" America throws up his arms in greeting, grin broadening almost impossibly. "HEY! When did you-" Then his eyes widen, and Romano can hear his sharp intake of breath before the blond launches himself across the intervening distance, tackling his brother to the floor. They land on the hardwood with a heavy _thud_.

Romano watches in incredulous surprise as America pushes himself up to straddle his brother, whose mouth he is covering with a glistening wet hand. "_Mattie_." America orders authoritatively, dripping water all over the sibling he's pinning to the floor, "_No __French. _Not even Canadian French. Got it?" His brother nods, eyes wide. "Promise." America insists, urgently, and Canada raises his right hand. America's shoulders sag with relief, and he exhales, smiling. "Okay."

"So when did you get here?" He asks as he stands, easily hauling the other blond to his feet as well. "I didn't see your car outside."

"I, uh, just put it in the garage." His brother answers a little distractedly, still shaken by previous events, and starts brushing at his clothes, which are now soaked in places. "America, what was that all about? I'm soaking wet now!"

"Sorry Mattie, it was real important, and I'll tell you about it later, but first!" He slaps an arm around his brother's shoulders, dragging him down the hall towards his best friend. "I want you to meet somebody. Mattie, this is Romano South Italy!" He announces, thrusting his brother at Romano. Then he releases him and steps sideways, slinging his other arm around Romano's shoulders, instead. "Romano, this is Canada!" He gestures towards his brother. "He's my little brother."

Romano pushes him off, protesting. "Get off me idiot, you're getting me wet!"

"Haha, sorry." America laughs, sheepish and giddy all at once. Romano blinks at him for a moment before turning to Canada.

"Um, hi." Romano holds out a hand. "I'm South Italy."

The other blond just stares at him, brows raised in surprise.

Romano stares back, hand extended.

America glances between them, and quirks an eyebrow when Canada continues staring at his best friend in apparent shock. He clears his throat significantly, prompting his brother to respond.

"Ah, n-nice to meet you," Canada snaps out of his momentary daze, blushing in embarrassment over his rudeness. "I'm C, Can-nada." He says, stammering a little as he offers his own hand. "I'm America's brother."

Shaking his hand (softer grip than America's, too), Romano blinks, taken aback. "Your name is _Cá Nada_?" He repeats, incredulous. He knew Spain could be kind of an asshole sometimes during that whole 'New World' shit, but _seriously_, pinning a name like that to a kid was just _cruel_.

"No, no!" Canada waves both hands in protest with a self-depreciating smile, as though apologizing for being so rude as to correct Romano, "_Canada!_ It's an Iroquois word! It means 'village'. It's not Spanish, really! I'm sorry for the misunderstanding!"

"What are you sorry for, bastard? It's _your_ name." Romano answers, mystified. He felt kind of sorry for the bastard. And _this_ guy was dating Prussia? How the hell did _that_ work?

"Ahaha, you're right." Canada rubs the back of his head in an embarrassed gesture.

"Buck up, Mattie; Romano's not gonna bite'cha." America grins, punching his brother's shoulder, and lowers his voice to explain to Romano in what is probably supposed to be a whisper, "He's a little shy."

"America..." Canada blushes further, looking mortified.

"Mattie, guess what?" America grabs Romano's hand and rocks up on his toes, smiling giddily. "Romano 'n' me are _best friends."_ He informs Canada proudly. Romano flushes, looking down.

"Y-you don't have to say it like that, bastard." He mutters, embarrassed (though he can't help the rush of warmth inside, nor the slight smile curving his lips at the pride and happiness in America's voice).

Canada stared at their joined hands, and his brother's glowing smile, and South Italy's deep blush. "...Best friends?" He repeats cautiously, wondering if he's heard wrong.

"Yep!" America bounces a little, pulling Romano closer and wrapping his arms around him, beaming ridiculously at his brother. "Best friends!"

"Oi, y-you're getting me wet, America." Romano mutters again in token protest, blush deepening, but doesn't struggle.

"Sorry." America apologizes, squeezing him a bit before letting him go. "I'm just kind of excited. I'll go and get us some towels, 'kay?"

"Why don't I get them, America?" Canada offers, pasting on a gracious smile and backing away, gesturing over his shoulder in the general direction of where he knows the closest linen closet to be. "I'm drier than you, eh? If you do it you'll just drip water all over the place. Why don't you wait here, and I can bring you both some towels and grab some dry clothes for you, okay?" He nods to his brother.

"Sure thing, Mattie." America grins, slicking his hair back again. "That'd be great, thanks!"

"No problem, eh? I'll be right back." Canada says, turning and hurrying away, feeling extremely conscious of the two sets of eyes on his back.

Once he's out of sight, Romano turns to America. "So...your brother's shy, huh?"

America laughs. "Yeah, he's pretty shy. Don't worry, he'll warm up to you pretty quick." He stoops, scooping up an armful of wet shopping bags. "I should probably move these into the garage so they can dry off before we bring 'em in the house. Anything you want in your room right away?"

"Nah, I'm good." Romano answers, prodding one of the boxes still on the floor with the toe of his boot. "It'd just get water everywhere, anyway."

"Ok." America turns to look out the still-open door, where the rain has lightened from a deluge into a mild downpour. "At least I can't get much wetter than I am now."

"Want the umbrella, bastard?" Romano offers.

"Nah, won't make much difference." America says, hefting the bags he's carrying. "It won't take too long to run all this out, anyway. Wish me luck." He grins and winks, laughing when Romano growls and looks away, blushing once more.

"J-just get out of here, bastard." Romano orders. "That stuff needs to get dry, dammit."

"Hahaha! You got it!" America laughs, bouncing out into the rain. Romano moves to the door, watching him disappear around the corner a little anxiously.

"And don't catch cold, idiot!"

* * *

_AN: Canada's perspective next chapter! And more interactions between the three, obviously._

_Oh! I almost forgot- Y'see, when I first learned about Canada when I was a wee lil munchkin, I went to the library and looked up some books, and one of the books I read on Canada said Canada got its name from Spanish Explorers, who wrote '_Ca Nada' - _meaning 'nothing', or 'nothing here'_ _on their maps all over where they explored in Canada. Later on I learned that there's several other explanations, but the preferred one is that it's derived from the Iroquois. Personally, I'll opt for whichever explanation makes Canadians happier._

_Y'know, on an entirely unrelated subject, I had intended Romano to have the moose (and only the moose, I don't know why they got so many toys), but I guess he decided it was for Spain. _

_And now I gotta run, 'cause I'm pullin' evening/night shift today. _


	41. My Brother's Keeper

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

**So. On the 15th of this month (11/15/2011), Educating America will be one year old. I'm pretty excited about that! **

_This is pretty much all from Canada's pov. __My instincts are telling me not to post this chapter, that I should keep it and tweak it and make it pretty, and they're probably right; but I am posting it anyway. Take that, instincts! _

* * *

He's wearing America's jacket. He's _wearing_ America's _jacket_. Of the maelstrom of thought and emotion whirling in Canada's mind, one thought kept bubbling inexorably to the top, emblazoning itself across his mental viewscreen.

_South Italy is __**wearing**__ America's jacket._

Canada couldn't wrap his mind around it. Opening the linen closet, he mindlessly pulled out a stack of towels, hands working independently of his buzzing mind.

South Italy is _wearing_ his brother's jacket. _Wearing_ it! And America _let_ him!

What is going _on? He's_ the only one who can wear America's jacket besides America! Well, up 'til _now_, anyway. Apparently. 'Cause _South Italy_ is standing in America's foyer, wearing America's jacket, now, too. _Apparently._

He frowned. (In actuality, the frown he wasn't aware he'd been wearing deepened.)

Well, Canada supposed, it's a good thing that his brother was opening up to other nations, he'd always wanted more friends. America wanted to be friends with everyone.

And maybe, he thought, lips thinning, his arms tightening around the towels as he headed up the stairs to grab his brother a change of dry clothes, if he wasn't such a selfish, pig-headed, inconsiderate _oaf— why_ hadn't America _told_ him? _Said_ anything? How long had this been going _on?_ America didn't keep secrets! America told him _everything! _So why hadn't he told him about South Italy? And okay, so maybe they're just friends and not lovers like everyone thought (which wasn't entirely surprising- friends made _so_ much more sense when America was involved), but _still!_

He's _letting_ him wear the _jacket! _It's _their_ jacket! Their, their _brothers_ jacket! Not for random interlopers to put on at will.

Maybe he didn't tell him because he's getting back at him for cancelling so many of their meetups over the last year, year and a half? Especially lately, he recalled with a wince...he'd cancelled four out of the last six. But it wasn't because he didn't want to spend time with America! It was just, he'd been busy lately, with getting everything ready to host the upcoming G-8 meeting, and ...Prussia... well, he was Prussia, and when he came around... well.

Yes.

He cleared his throat, blushing a little, and pushed the door to his brother's room open. Setting the stack of towels on the end of the bed, he went to the closet and pulled out a pair of jeans, folding them neatly, and reached into the closet again— and paused, a terrible thought occurring to him just as his hand closed around one of America's shirts.

What if America was _replacing_ him?

America said he and South Italy were best friends...and a best friend was kind of like a brother, right? Like a brother you weren't related to. So maybe America got tired of him cancelling their hangout sessions and decided to find someone else to hang out with... someone cooler, and, and...

He bit his lip again, brows furrowing in sudden worry.

...what if America forgot about him? His brother had a hard time remembering his existence sometimes as it was...even though...

No, no. He shook his head, both in denial and an attempt to dislodge the terrible thought. America wouldn't _really _forget him.

...would he?

Suddenly he wished he hadn't left Kumajinko behind. He could really use his advice, right now. He tried to think what his bear would say if he was here.

_If you're worried you'll be forgotten, find a way to make sure you're remembered! _

Of course! Canada pulled the shirt from its hanger, lips tightening with newfound resolve. He wouldn't lose to South Italy! America wasn't going to forget him! He wouldn't let that happen. He'd make _sure_ America remembered him.

Starting with making him breakfast. _Everybody_ loved maple syrup.

He could hear the others talking as he approached the foyer.

"Augh, look at you." South Italy fussed. "You're wet as hell, America."

Canada had to admit that there was a hint of worry in his voice. So maybe South Italy actually cared a _little_ about his brother, and wasn't just using him for his jacket.

"Yeah, I am." America agreed easily, lifting his arm and watching water drip steadily from his sleeve. "I guess I could get wetter after all."

Because his brother was the kind of idiot who didn't have the sense to come in out of the rain, Canada thought, shaking his head almost imperceptibly in a mix of fondness and exasperation.

"You'd better not get sick, dammit." South Italy frowned, shoving his hands into the pockets of the bomber. Canada had to admit that maybe he _looked_ a little worried, too- though it seemed like he was trying to hide it.

"I won't." America assured him, sniffling. "It's just a little water. Something like that couldn't hurt me!"

Canada cleared his throat, announcing his presence, and offered a towel first to South Italy (who was a _guest _after all, even if he _was_ wearing Canada's brother's jacket) and then to his brother. "Still, you really should dry off, America."

"Oh, thanks." South Italy accepted the towel with a nod, and began to dry himself off.

"Thanks Mattie." America agreed, taking the towel and towelling his hair.

Canada turned to South Italy. "Would you like to take that jacket off?" He offered politely, stepping closer in a friendly, non-threatening manner. "I'm sure it got wet, eh? I'd be happy to hang it up to dry." His fingers twitched, ready to take the jacket as soon as it was free of South Italy's brother-stealing clutches (not that South Italy wasn't probably a very nice person, under the jacket).

"Huh?" South Italy glanced at him, and looked and down at the jacket he wore, nodding hesitantly as he set down his towel and reached for the zipper. "O-oh. I guess-"

"It's okay, Mattie. 'Mano didn't get too wet." America interrupted dismissively, tilting his head to towel his neck. "I gave him the umbrella so he could stay mostly dry."

"That's tru-" South Italy started, lowering his hand again. Canada tried not to frown. His brother really wasn't helping out, here.

"But it still got wet, America. I can see the raindrops, see?" He countered, still politely, stepping closer to South Italy and the jacket to indicate the glistening drops on the dark leather surface.

"A little rain won't hurt it." America tilted his head, thumping the side of it in an attempt to shake the water out of his ears. "We can just wipe it off with a towel. Besides, it's keeping him warm."

"Water's not good for leather, eh?" Canada insisted, polite smile fixed in place despite his rising irritation. South Italy glanced back at him a little warily, and Canada smiled at him show that he was friendly (which he was, really, it's just that South Italy _really_ shouldn't be wearing that jacket, or trying to replace him in his brother's affections, and okay so maybe he was a _little _irritated and jealous, but everything would be _fine_ once South Italy took the jacket off and everyone realised who the brother was around here), which seemed to make the Italian more nervous, for some reason. "Besides, it's really too warm in the house to be wearing a jacket, you know? It'll get uncomfortable."

"No he won't, he was wearing it before and he was fine." America argued, straightening again. "Besides, it really didn't get that wet."

Canada couldn't help it, he frowned, brows furrowing as he stared at the jacket.

"Uh," Said South Italy, slowly edging towards America, keeping a wary eye on Canada over his shoulder. "M-maybe I-"

"There!" Canada exclaimed, causing South Italy to jump a little in alarm, ducking closer to America and staring at Canada with wide eyes. "The collar's soaked." Canada announced victoriously, pointing out what he'd noticed when South Italy had moved away. "And the back of it's all wet, from where it was in contact with your clothes, right there, see?" South Italy craned his head around, and America leaned over to see that yes, the fur was plastered down with water and the back of the jacket was dripping wet.

"Ah," South Italy said.

"Oh." America paused, chagrined, almost pouting a little. "Maybe-"

"America, he can't wear a wet jacket, eh?" Canada insisted again, hovering a bit as he waited for South Italy to take it off.

"I guess you're right." South Italy acknowledged, reaching into the front of the jacket to pull out a stuffed dog, passing it to America. "Here, hold Jii-chan for a minute, bastard."

"'Kay." America tossed his wet towel aside in favour of holding the toy.

Canada waited patiently while South Italy shrugged out of the jacket, reaching for it the moment it was free. "I'll take that." He smiled, grasping the bomber and folding it over his arm. "I'll just go and hang this up to dry, eh?" He turned to go and hide- er, hang the jacket up somewhere safe and dry (and maybe put it on first, just to reassure himself of it), but was stopped by his brother.

"Just hang it in the coat closet there Mattie, it'll be fine." America said, handing South Italy back his toy.

"If you say so, America." Canada stifled a sigh, and quickly but carefully dried the jacket off as best he could with a towel before hanging it in the closet. Once he'd closed the closet, he relaxed a little. _There. _The jacket was safe. He turned to the others, able to smile more genuinely in his relief. "There we go."

"Didja get me some dry clothes?" America asked, kicking off his shoes.

"Ah, yes." Canada retrieved the folded clothes from under the stack of towels. "Although you should probably get out of those wet clothes first, eh?"

"Workin' on it." America said, and grabbed the hem of his wet hoodie, pulling it up over his head, where it got stuck. He stood there for a moment, struggling with the thick wet cloth, arms stuck over his head, trying to get it off. "Dammit! I forgot...how...hard it is to...get these damn things off...when...they're..._wet."_ He complained as he writhed, water dripping down his torso as it was wrung from the cotton by his efforts to get the wet hoodie off without ripping it.

"Here, bend over, I'll help." Canada suggested, moving closer. "Er, would you hold these for a moment, please? Thanks." He passed the dry clothes to South Italy so he'd have his hands free to help his brother, and reached out to tug on the wet hoodie when his brother bent down so he could reach. "America, your skin is freezing!" He exclaimed when his fingers brushed his brother's water-slick skin.

"It was a little cold outside." America explained, trying to pull his arms out of the sleeves. "Can you grab the bottom and yank it?"

"'Kay." With a little grunting and struggling, they managed to get it off without ripping anything, although America nearly lost his glasses in the effort.

"Whoo! Thanks." America readjusted Texas and ran his hands through his hair to get it out of his face, and grinned at his brother.

"No problem, Al." Canada nodded, smiling back as he folded the wet hoodie and setting it down to take to the laundry room later. "Hey, don't drop those on the floor," he scolded when America dropped his wet socks, "give them here, I'll put them aside to be washed." He held out his hand, and America obediently scooped them up, passing them over with a grunt of acknowledgement.

"Hey, did you bring me boxers?" He asked, straightening to unzip his pants and peeling them off with a shimmy.

"No, sorry. Just pants and a warm shirt." Canada apologized, holding out a hand for his brother's wet pants.

"Here," America folded them carelessly and handed them over as well, "the boxers are inside. Came off with the pants."

"I see that." Canada agreed, amused.

"_Ihavetogotothebathroom."_ South Italy bolted, thrusting the dry clothes into Canada's arms as he passed, tearing down the hall and up the stairs.

"There's one down here!" America called after him, but apparently South Italy didn't hear, because a few seconds later they heard a door slam upstairs.

"Didn't you show him around, America?" Canada frowned a little, looking over his shoulder after where South Italy had disappeared as he handed his brother a fresh towel. He _hoped_ his brother had been _somewhat_ of a good host to his _best friend_, at least.

"Yeah, I did." America started vigorously towelling his neck and shoulders. "But he might have forgotten where the bathrooms were. Or maybe he prefers the one in his room." He shivered, working his way down his torso. "_Jeez_. I won't lie to you, it's fuckin' _cold_ out there."

"Well then, maybe you should take a hot shower to warm up, America." Canada frowned, folding the wet towel and placing it in the pile of things to be washed. "You don't want to catch cold."

"I already took a shower." America said carelessly, twisting to try and get the dip in his lower spine that was always so hard to reach. "Before we left."

"A shower to _warm up_, not to get clean." Canada corrected, leaning forward to press the back of his fingers against his brother's arm. "America, you really are freezing. You really should take a shower and get warm."

"But I'm just starting to get dry." America pouted. "I don't see why I have to get wet again."

"You don't want to get sick, do you? There's a big week coming up." Canada pointed out, considering that the G-8 meeting just a few days away.

"I guess." America agreed reluctantly, remembering that he had Romano for an entire _week_. _Plus_ two extra days! He couldn't afford to get sick, and lose Romano time. Oh! Romano should probably take a shower, too! After all, he'd been outside in the rain, and he'd mentioned earlier he was a little chilly, right? Maybe they could shower together, and save time! That sounded like fun. Maybe they could have a water fight. "Okay," he conceded, more agreeably now that a shower actually sounded like fun, "I'll go take a shower. Be down in a bit, Mattie!"

"Okay. I'll throw your wet things in the wash." Canada said, handing him the dry clothes and picking up the wet ones to put in the wash, thinking about what he was going to make for breakfast. "Then I'll get started on-"

"That's okay, Mattie, I'll do it." America interrupted, reaching for his wet clothes and jerking his head towards the laundry room. "It's on the way, anyway."

"Oh, okay." Canada nodded absently, handing off the bundle to his brother and heading for the kitchen. That would give him time to get a head start on breakfast. America took short showers, so he'd probably be down before breakfast was finished, anyway.

He'd have to ask South Italy what he would like for breakfast when he finished up in the bathroom, too. Probably something a little less grease-saturated than his brother's preferred breakfast foods. He wondered (a little excitedly) if South Italy had ever tried pancakes. This could be a great opportunity for Canada to show his good points!

He picked up the pace to the kitchen, excitement rising. This could be fun! He could impress the European nation, and make sure America wouldn't forget him, all in one fell swoop! He was _Canada_, he could do it!

* * *

_AN:__ I have some things to say about Canada, but I think I'll say them next chapter. Or perhaps never._

_On a story-related note, Canada isn't responding the way I planned (although honestly, I don't know why I expected him to. Nobody else sticks to the script, I don't know why I thought Canada would.) I understand where he's coming from, but I don't think he has much to worry about. _


	42. What's Mine is Yours, Apparently

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

_This is kind of a transitional chapter, but I wanted to get **something** posted. Be forewarned that I can't be sure of the quality. _

* * *

Romano slammed the door behind him and leaned against it, gasping. His skin _burned_, he felt hot all over, his heart racing, and he panted, hungry for air. Unconsciously, he loosened the top few buttons of his shirt in an effort to cool off as he glanced around the room, a familiar, aching _need_ overtaking him at the images burned into his mind. He ran a hand through his hair, casting about the room as he tried to remember where he'd put...ah, _there_. He stumbled across the room on watery legs, until he reached the bedside table. Opening the drawer with shaking hands he dug inside to retrieve the items his brother had insisted he'd bring (he hadn't thought he'd need them, but now he's deeply thankful for his brother's foresight and insistence) from their depths. Clasping them to his trembling body, he crawled onto the bed, settling himself comfortably on his stomach, and closed his eyes, letting the scene he'd just fled replay itself in his mind. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he relaxed across the bed, legs splayed, preparing himself for what he was about to do. Slowly, he opened his eyes, exhaled, picked up the items he'd retrieved from the drawer— and began to draw.

A short while later there was a knock on his door. "What is it?" He called distractedly, engrossed in his task. He heard the door open, and then America's voice.

"Hey, 'Mano. You wanna take a shower with me?"

"Busy." He grunted, not really listening.

"Doin' what?" He heard the other nation enter the room, approaching the bed behind him.

"Drawing." He replied, brows furrowed in concentration. "Can you turn on the light?" There was a click, and the ceiling light came on. He nodded in satisfaction. The bedside lamp had _not_ been cutting it. "Thanks."

"No problem. Hey, if you're drawing, can I watch?" Something poked his leg, and he shifted it away, irritated.

"No."

"Aw, c'mon. Please? I'll be real quiet."

"_No."_

"Boo, no fair." A pause. "Well, if you won't let me watch, how 'bout you take a break, and we can take a shower to warm up? You said you were chilly, right?" America's voice said hopefully, and the bed shifted under a weight as his friend leaned on the bed to prod him. "C'mon, it'll be fun!"

"_Busy_." He reiterated, pausing briefly to swat away the hand which poked his side. "Leave me alone, bastard. I need to concentrate."

A sigh. "Well, fine. You mind if I use your shower, then? It's closer."

"Knock yourself out, bastard." Romano responded, preoccupied with his work. "Have fun."

"'Kay. Feel free to join me when you're done, 'kay?"

"Nn." Romano grunted in response, barely aware of his bathroom door opening, the shower starting up, or even America's singing as he showered, completely focused as he was on what he was drawing.

Romano was still drawing when America exited the bathroom, clothed and drying his hair with a towel, skin flushed from the heat of his shower. Seeing that Romano was still preoccupied drawing, he crossed the room to sprawl on the bed next to him, leaning on his elbows to watch him work. "You still drawing?"

"Mhm." Romano answered.

"Cool." America said, and lay down, resting his chin on folded arms, towel draped over his head like a cowl. He closed his eyes, content to lay here next to his best friend, listening to him breathe, and the interestingly restful sound of his pencil on paper. The warmth of Romano's body, his weight on the mattress next to him, was comfortable and reassuring. He sighed contentedly, feeling strangely warm and happy.

Romano laid down his pencil and closed his drawing pad, spent and deeply satisfied in the afterglow of his creative fervor. He hadn't had one that strong in quite some time, and he'd thoroughly enjoyed every moment of it. It was good. No, it was _great_. Fuck, when it came to drawing, this was probably some of his best work. It was easily among his most satisfying. He exhaled and stretched, basking in the sense of accomplishment and well-being that came after such productive creative session as this one had been. It was...deeply fulfilling. He leaned his chin in his hand and smiled, fiddling idly with his pencil. It was then that he noticed America laying next to him, head pillowed on folded arms, obviously deep in slumber. He gazed at him for a moment, and flipped his drawing pad open to a blank page, sketching idly, chin in hand, as he watched his friend sleep. After a few minutes he let his pencil rest, and closed the pad again, placing it on the bedside table. Returning his attention to the sleeping nation, Romano shifted onto his side a bit, so he could watch more comfortably.

America was smiling faintly as he slept, his lips curled up in the corners as if something nice was happening to him in his dreams. An endless supply of hamburgers, probably, Romano thought, his own lips quirking up in amusement. He reached out to trace the soft curve of America's cheek with a fingertip, upwards from jawline to cheekbone. High cheekbones, he noted, splaying his fingerpads across it, caressing the plane and swell, following the line back to the temple and forward again to America's nose, stroking his forefinger lightly over the bridge and down the straight line of it, and slowly back up again to the young nation's eyebrows. He followed the surprisingly delicate golden arc with his fingertips, feeling the fine crest of bone that lay beneath, and splayed his fingers across America's temple.

America opened his eyes, and smiled. "Hey."

"Hey." Romano greeted, drawing his thumb across the bridge of America's nose. "Where're your glasses?"

"Mmh." America answered, voice rough with sleep. "Left'm in the bathroom." He exhaled, blinking slowly. "Th'y get foggy."

"Mm." Romano ran his thumb down the length of America's nose once more. America sighed and wriggled closer, rolling over onto his back so he could look up at him without turning his head so much (and so Romano could touch him more easily).

"You done drawin'?"

"Yeah."

"Cool." America nodded slightly. "You look happy."

"'M pretty happy." Romano admitted, retracing America's brows. "It went well."

"Cool." America said again, understanding. Romano's relaxed, satisfied expression was similar to the one he wore when he finished a particularly successful personal project. He stifled a yawn, and pushed an arm underneath Romano, wrapping it loosely around him and draping a hand over his waist, squirming closer as he did so until his side was pressed against Romano's front, shoulder nestled snuggly against the arm Romano was using to prop up his chin. "Can I see what you drew?"

"Mhm, sure." Romano nodded, cupping his jaw, drawing the pad of his thumb down America's chin. Hm. He could sculpt this. "In a bit."

"'Kay." America closed his eyes again, content to relax and enjoy his best friend's closeness.

There came a knock on the bedroom door, and Romano started, jerking away. America opened his eyes and frowned, a little disoriented by the sudden loss of the touch and presence at his side, leaving him strangely cold and his arm empty in a weird sort of way. There was a thump, and he pushed himself up on his elbows, blinking sleepily at the world of fuzzy shapes. "...Romano?"

"America?" Canada poked his head in through the open door, knocking again in case they hadn't heard him the first time. "Breakfast is ready whenever you are."

"Oh." America sat up the rest of the way and nodded, rubbing his eyes. "Okay, thanks Mattie. We'll be right down."

"'Kay. You fall asleep?"

"Mm, a little bit." America bit back another yawn and slouched, letting his hands fall into his lap. His brother chuckled.

"I'll get the coffee started, then." Canada said, resting his hand on the doorframe. "Which room is South Italy staying in? I want to let him know breakfast is ready, too. Do you think he'll want anything special?"

"This one. And I don't know, I'll ask." America turned and crawled across the bed to peer over the far side to where Romano lay on the floor on his back. "You want anything in particular for breakfast?"

"Uh," Romano started, trying to get his racing heart under control. The knock on the door had startled him; he'd totally forgotten there was anyone else in the house besides the two of them. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, peering cautiously over the bed, just in case there were any more unexpected visitors he may have forgotten about lurking around (he hoped not- America's brother Canada was more than enough).

"_America_," Canada interjected in mild disbelief, sticking his hands into the pocket of his hoodie, "_tell_ me you're not making him sleep on the _floor_."

"What? No!" America frowned indignantly over his shoulder in the general direction of his brother. "Of _course _not, _jeez_. He just fell off the bed."

"Is he okay?" Canada asked, coming over to the bed, his brows furrowed in concern.

"I think so." America turned back to his best friend. "You alright, 'Mano?"

"I'm fine." Romano answered, taking the hand that America reached out to help him up.

"'Kay, good." America nodded, pulling him to his feet. "See, Mattie, he's fine." He grinned towards his brother, slapping Romano's shoulder proudly. "'Mano's pretty tough."

"You two are... sharing a room?" Canada took in the bed, the rumpled bedcovers bearing the indents of two people, and their still-connected hands (which wasn't really necessary now that South Italy was standing), his mind racing. They were sharing a _bed?_ Well, that wasn't _really_ unusual with America, but that was generally after he'd watched a horror movie or read ghost stories or something like that, and he was pretty sure that hadn't happened before he'd gotten here, because America hadn't been screaming and clinging to him when he came over. And why were they using _this_ room? America hardly ever used this room, he preferred his other bedroom most of the time. Why would he suddenly switch because South Italy was here? What was going _on?_

"No," America interrupted his confusion, leading South Italy around the bed (which was completely unnecessary, 'cause the path was clear and South Italy could have done that on his own, being a _fully grown adult_ and all, and Canada knew he was being petty but _still),_ "this is 'Mano's room now. This is where he'll stay whenever he comes over."

"You gave him your second master?" Canada repeated, wondering if he'd heard wrong, trying to quell the rising jealousy roiling in the pit of his stomach. "Like, permanently?"

"Yep! Isn't that cool?" America beamed at him sunnily. Canada looked to South Italy, who avoided his gaze, surreptitiously easing closer to America (brother-stealing hoser).

"Yes." He smiled and nodded, hands clenched tightly in the pocket of his hoodie where no-one could see them. "It is, isn't it?" Just. Fucking. Lovely.

"Yep! We're gonna renovate it and stuff, so it'll be like his home away from home!" America said excitedly as he got up from the bed, draping his arm around South Italy's shoulders.

"Really." Said Canada.

"Yep! We bought a bunch of stuff and we're gonna repaint and redecorate and everything. It's gonna be _awesome_, right, 'Mano." He grinned down at South Italy, who blushed.

"Uh,"

"Really." Said Canada.

"Uhhuh!" America beamed, bouncing on the balls of his feet in anticipation. "And I'm gonna make him this awesome shoe cabinet and— Oh! Hey, Mattie, do you still have my letter jacket?"

"Yes." Canada responded automatically, still processing the news.

"Can I have it back?" Canada blinked. What? "'Cause I wanted to give it to 'Mano."

"Oh?" Canada asked, smiling sweetly. Over his _fucking dead body_. "Are you going to give him the bomber, too?"

A loud, growling gurgle from Romano's stomach interrupted them. Both blonds zoned in on the southern half of Italy, who scowled and hunched slightly, flushing deeply.

"I'm _hungry_, alright bastards?" He growled defensively, daring them to make something of it. America chuckled, squeezing his shoulders, and went to retrieve Texas from the restroom so they could go to breakfast.

Canada flushed too, kicking himself internally for forgetting his hosting duties. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to keep you waiting, eh?" He smiled sheepishly and gestured to the door, deeply embarrassed that he'd let his jealousy supercede his manners. "Come on, breakfast is ready downstairs. I hope you like pancakes."

"I don't know." Romano confessed. "I've never had them."

"You're gonna love 'em." America said, grinning anticipatorily as he exited the restroom slipping Texas into place. "Mattie's pancakes are the _best_."

* * *

_AN: Other countries have pancakes (sort of, but they're not **real** pancakes *haughty sniff*. They're just called that, like the way Canadians call ham 'bacon', although I suspect that is mostly to vex and disappoint Americans. What do Canadians call their bacon, I wonder? Because I spent some time in a meat-packing plant, making food for Canada, and let me tell you Canada, I've seen what you eat and you eat a lot of bacon, and various meats wrapped in bacon, and **tons** of pig wings, which I had never of heard before but am intrigued by, but I'm digressing), including Italy, except they tend to be more savoury, and not nearly as delicious as Canamerican pancakes._

_And nobody does it like Canada. _

_Canada, Canada. Canada! I was expecting you to **help**. Why doesn't anybody stay on script? Even the **nice** one! *sigh* Not that I blame him,__ I suppose. If nations can't be territorial, who can? _

_...Still, maybe he'll ease up a bit once he figures things out and gets the pack order sorted. I feel bad for Romano though, man. Stuck between two big blonds who could snap him in half without any effort at all, in a huge empty house in a huge strange country filled with huge wild moose and bears and who knows **what** else, with nowhere to escape if things go south._

_And he doesn't even have the moose-resistant jacket anymore to help keep him safe._

_Romano...I wanted to get into his head and show you what's going on there, but I guess that'll have to wait. I tell you what though, I had very different plans for this chapter, but as soon as he shut the door he wanted to draw, and wasn't taking no for an answer. Not that I fought him on it too hard after I thought about it, 'cause I have a fascination with artists anyway, so wtg South Italy. I know what he drew, but you never will, muahahahaha! XD Kidding, it'll probably come up later. _

_Okay. Updates might slow, on this and other stories, for reasons I don't want to go into here but are explained in my profile if you're curious. I don't want to risk screwing up the stories under the circumstances. I'll keep writing, though, so don't worry, and I'll be okay, so don't worry about that either. Replies to reviews and PMs may be slower, too, but it's not 'cause I don't love you, 'kay? I really appreciate them, truly (and again, don't feel obligated to review- it's sweet, and I love them, but it's not a requirement. Don't feel bad or guilty if you don't have time or can't think of anything to say. This isn't contractual, this story is freely shared, and written because I love doing it and want to share that pleasure. I don't need anything in return, okay? Writing is its own reward.) _

_Oh! And the RomanoxAmerica club on DA is having a contest, but I suppose it's kind of short notice now since the deadline is on the 15th.^^; _


	43. Unsecret Recipes

**Hetalia: I dig it. Don't own it.**

_With thanks to sakerat, without whom this chapter would not have come into being. _

_(I'll be honest, I'm still a little reluctant to post for this story under the circumstances. I'm a little scared to screw up the story! But it'll be months of testing yet before I can even start treatment, so...I'll just do my best in the meantime.) _

_And... thank you for your support and encouragement, all of you. You're so sweet! I'm touched by your kindness, really. *hearts* _

* * *

_"Can I have it back? 'Cause I wanted to give it to __**'Mano**__.'_

Canada dug his nails into the thick cotton of his hoodie pocket, teeth clenched tightly as he led the way out of the bedroom, unable to think clearly through the pounding fury and jealousy in his head and stomach as his brother's words repeated over and over, white-hot in his mind. What the hell, what the hell, what the _hell_. Knives. Teeth. Claws. Huge fucking hockey sticks. Would you like to meet my bears, South Italy? Why don't you come with me into the woods. We can have a little talk about jackets. And brothers. And stealing what's _mine_.

His brother chattered mindlessly behind him, telling South Italy something about something, Canada couldn't really focus over the territorial ire running through him like sap through an untapped maple. South Italy needed to know where he stood. _Canada_ was America's brother. _Canada_ was closest to America. _They shared a fucking border._ They were the same fucking continent!

He glanced back over his shoulder to where his brother and South Italy followed a few paces behind, absorbed in conversation. Oh, look at that. They were holding hands. Wasn't that sweet. Well, two could play at that game.

Canada dropped back to take his brother's other arm, latching on tight in his best 'cute little brother' fashion. He felt a little surge of victory when America looked at him, a little surprised, and released South Italy's hand for a moment to ruffle his hair.

"You're in a good mood today." America observed, taking South Italy's hand again.

"I'm happy to see you, eh?" Canada smiled sweetly, noticing the action. South Italy wasn't looking at him, but instead had his gaze on the floor, frowning slightly. Canada settled his chin on his brother's shoulder. "It's been a while since we spent time together, y'know?"

"That's true." America acknowledged.

South Italy's brows furrowed, and he looked up. "I thought you said you and your brother spent a lot of time together, bastard."

"Twice a month." America nodded. "But he hasn't been able to make it lately, 'cause he's dating Prussia now."

"_Ugh_." South Italy gestured irritatedly. "I know how that is. Feliciano's _always_ hanging around the stupid potato bastard, too. Brother-stealing asshole."

"Dude, tell me about it." America commiserated. "But still, as long as Mattie's happy."

"At least _your_ brother gives a shit whether you live or die." South Italy continued, gesturing at Canada. "_Mine_ could care less whether or not I even _exist_."

"That's not true, Romano!" America disagreed. "Your brother cares about you, too!"

"No he doesn't." Romano scowled, sulking. "Feliciano doesn't care what happens to me as long as he's got his precious _Germany_. That bastard's all he ever talks about."

"That's not true, Romano!" America insisted again as they descended the stairs. "Your brother cares alot about you. Really!"

South Italy snorted. "What do _you_ know about it, bastard."

"He does! He even gave me the 'don't mess with my brother' talk."

South Italy frowned doubtfully. "...He did?"

"Yep! I mean, it wasn't very intimidating, 'cause he didn't have any weapons, but I give him points for trying."

"..._Feliciano_." South Italy deadpanned, clearly questioning the veracity of America's statement.

"Yes!"

Canada frowned as they continued debating. He could...sympathize with what South Italy was feeling (assuming he wasn't _making it up_ for America's attention), but...that didn't excuse his trying to steal _his_ brother. He should go back home and try to get his _own_ brother back, instead. He hugged America's arm possessively to his chest. And frowned again, squirming a little, because that pressed the thick cloth of his hoodie against his skin, and he hadn't realised it was still damp in spots. And clammy. And uncomfortable. He should have brought a change of clothe— oh. Oh. _Oh._ OH! He had an idea! Oh! It would work! Oh! He could do it! He knew how to get America's attention!

He plucked at his brother's sleeve. "America~, Ameriiicaa~?"

"Hm?" His brother responded, looking up from his conversation with South Italy. Canada smiled sheepishly.  
"M-my clothes are still damp, from when you hugged me. Can I borrow some of yours, please?"

"Of course, Mattie; you don't even have to ask."

"Thanks." Canada detached his arm from his brother's, and hurried back up the stairs to his brother's room. Quickly, he shucked off his clothes, and dug through America's closet for fresh ones. Jeans, jeans, something a little too big and worn out..._there_. He grabbed one of America's favourite pairs of jeans out of the closet, ones that were about two sizes too big on his brother, which would make them about three sizes too big for him. He tugged them on and buttoned them, resisting the urge to hold them up with one hand as he looked through the shirts. One of Alfred's favourites (but nothing with stars and stripes— this was war, but he had _standards),_ something...oh! America loved this old flannel shirt, he wore it every time they went camping; perfect. He shrugged it on, buttoning it up as he went to stand in front of the mirror, checking the results.

Yes, this would work perfectly. Obviously too big for him, made him look a little smaller and cuter and _America's_. He narrowed his eyes consideringly, tilting his head this way and that. Hm. Should he put up his hair? He could pin it back...America had sad it was _adorable_ last time he'd done that (which was why he hadn't done it since, normally he _hated_ it when America treated him like a ...well, a _little brother_, but this was special circumstances). He drew his hair back up, holding it against his head above his ears. Yes, that made his resemblance to America clearer, too. Okay. He went to the drawers, rifling through them for something he could use to pin up his hair. Eh, nothing in here, America didn't put anything in his hai— oh!

He hurried to the bathroom and flipped on the light, digging in the drawer where America kept the random stuff France and England left behind sometimes when they visited. Aha, there! He found a few hairclips of France's underneath a tweed bowtie, and grabbed a couple to pin back his hair, using the mirror to make sure he got it right. There. Perfect. He was fucking _adorable_.

It was too bad he'd left Kumajiro behind, he reflected a little ruefully. Having a little fuzzy bear to squeeze would only add to the effect. America loved that sort of thing.

He flipped off the lights and headed back out, striding confidently down the hall. You think you're so very cool, huh, South Italy? Well, that might be true; but _America_ liked things 'cute'. And _nobody_ did 'cute' like _Matthew fucking Williams._

* * *

Romano stared at the plate in front of him. Or, more specifically, what was sitting on it: a stack of fluffy golden disks. 'Pancakes', according to America, who'd been assuring him since they'd left the room that there was no better breakfast in the _world_ than pancakes made by Canada_;_ but Romano couldn't really take _that_ seriously because he knew what America ate, and the travesties England tried to pass off on people as food, and although America kept telling him Canada was a great cook the fact of the matter was that Canada was America's _brother_, and assumably also raised by _England_, and...well, that wasn't exactly reassuring.

It _looked_ harmless enough. He prodded a light golden cake tentatively, tensing for any unexpected reactions. Explosions, attacks, he wasn't sure what to expect, but when it came to this family's foodstuffs you couldn't be too careful. England's cooking had killed _thousands. _

Besides, he had the sneaking suspicion that America's brother might try to poison him.

The cakes lay still, playing innocent. He narrowed his eyes at them, undeceived, and poked them with his fork, ready to dive under the table if they responded violently.

They didn't.

He poked them again.

"What are you doing?" He looked up to see America watching him, expression torn between amused and bemused.

"...Just...testing." He answered evasively, fingers shifting on his fork. Any minute now, the pancakes would attack. Or, explode. Or, lay there until he was fooled, and ate them, and then they would poison him. To _death_.

America watched him for a moment, cutting another bite from his own already half-eaten stack of pancakes. "They're not poisoned, or anything."

Romano hummed noncommittally, unconvinced; and cautiously lifted the edge of the topmost pancake with his fork, checking for bombs or spiders or other nasty surprises. Tentacles, maybe. Cursed spirits. Marmite.

"Thehy're going tho ghet cohld." America pointed out, around a mouthful of pancake.

Romano pursed his lips, edging the plate away. "Maybe I'll just make some pasta."

"C'mon, 'Mano, give it a try." America coaxed. "One bite. You'll love it, I promise. Mattie'll cry if you don't at least _try_ 'em. If you don't like 'em, I'll eat 'em."

"I thought you said I'd love them." Romano frowned. America rolled his eyes, and reached across the table to offer Romano a bite of his own pancakes.

"Here. One bite. That's all I ask."

Romano's eyes crossed as he stared suspiciously at the fork hovering in front of his lips. "Just one?"

"Yep. If you don't like it, you can spit it out."

"You _swear_ it's not poisoned?"

"I've been eating them for a while. I think you'd know if they were poisoned."

"Well... okay." Reluctantly, Romano opened his mouth.

As soon as his best friend's mouth closed around the fork, America couldn't help but grin, 'cause just like back in the diner, he could tell the instant the taste hit Romano's tongue. Just like in the diner, Romano's eyes lit up, his eyebrows lifting incrementally. But then, _unlike_ in the diner, Romano's eyes fell shut, and he made a low, _appreciative_ sound in his throat, and America's pulse rate shot up but everything else slowed down and came into sharp focus: the warm flush across the bridge of Romano's nose and cheekbones, the delicate flutter of lowered lashes against olive skin, the lush, moist curve of Romano's mouth around silver tines, which slid, glistening, from between soft lips as he withdrew; America's own mouth fell open, and his eyelids drooped, and he found himself a little flushed and breathless.

Rapidly, he cut another piece as Romano chewed, hastening to offer his friend another bite. Romano swallowed, and the tip of his tongue slid out to trace his lower lip, and America swallowed, too, his mouth dry; and then Romano took the bite, his pleasured moan sending vibrations up the silver metal and into America's fingertips, down his spine, making his stomach flutter and tighten oddly and his heart flip and he felt a little dizzy and he wondered if Romano would let him feed him the rest of the pancakes, too, and if Romano knew there was a little drop of golden syrup on his chin and if maybe he could—

"Okay, I'm back. Sorry that—"

"_Iwasn'tdoinganything!"_ America yelped in alarm, nearly dropping his fork as he jolted around in his seat to face his brother, heart racing guiltily. What the _fuck? _he thought, brows twisting in confusion immediately afterward. Why the hell had he said that? What was he feeling guilty about? He hadn't done anything wrong, right? He was just giving his best friend some pancakes. Friends did that. So why was he feeling so weird? His stomach twisted in shame and confusion.

"Are you alright, America?" His brother asked hesitantly. He opened his mouth to answer, not sure what he was going to say.

"_Mm. _Why didn't you _tell_ me these were so good, bastard?" Romano demanded, having swallowed the last bite, and reached for his own plate, grabbing his fork and falling on his pancakes like a starving animal. "You should have _told_ me!"

"What? I did!" America protested, relieved to have something normal to distract him from the weird feeling in his stomach. "I _told_ you they were good!"

Romano gestured dismissively with his fork, swallowing his mouthful before he answered, "Like I was going to believe _you._ You think _hamburgers _are delicious! You were raised by _England!"_

"I still told you." America pouted, a little insulted. Romano ignored him and turned to Canada, eyes bright with impressed surprise as he enthused,

"Oi, Canada! These pancakes are _delicious_! They're so good! They're really, really good!"

"Oh, well, I," Canada dithered, blushing with embarrassed pleasure, "I, I'm glad you like them, South Italy."

"I _love_ them!" Romano agreed emphatically, more than halfway through his stack, "Are there more?"

"I can make some." Canada offered quickly, deeply flattered. "It won't take long."

"You can have mine if you want." America pushed his plate across to Romano. His appetite was gone, for some reason. "I'm not that hungry."

"Thanks, bastard." Romano shoved his empty plate aside and pulled America's half-finished one closer. "This maple syrup shit is fucking _delicious_."

"I'm really glad you like it." Canada beamed, flushing deeply as he pulled his apron on and grabbed a mixing bowl. "I'd be happy to give you a couple bottles if you'd like."

"Mm," Romano nodded, mouth full, and swallowed, licking his lips, "that'd be great."

"Okay." Canada's smile widened, and he turned to dig in the cupboards, his jealousy momentarily forgotten. He felt like he was walking on air. South Italy loved his pancakes! Really, really loved them!

"These are _so good_." Romano moaned again, polishing off the last of the available pancakes. "I can't believe I didn't know about these before. How did I not know about these?"

"They're a North American specialty." America grinned a little, chin in hand. "And nobody makes 'em like Mattie."

"How long do they take to make, bastard?" Romano asked, leaving his seat and moving to peer around Canada's shoulder at the mixing bowl, which was empty. "What do you put in them?"

"I can show you how to make them if you'd like." Canada offered, smiling. "It doesn't take long at all."

"Really?" Romano asked, a little surprised that Canada would offer to teach him the recipe so easily. Wasn't it a secret? "You'll show me how?"

"Of course!" Canada nodded, moving aside to make room for South Italy at the counter, and pulled his apron off, handing it to the European nation. "Here, why don't you take the apron, eh? It can get a little messy."

"Nn, thanks." Romano nodded, pulling it over his head and quickly tying the strings around his waist.

"First, we're going to sift the flour. Now, normally the recipe only calls for one and a half cups if you're cooking for two," Canada explained to an attentive South Italy, "but when I cook for America I always triple the recipe, so we're going to use four and a half cups..."

* * *

_AN: Questions raised by this chapter should be explained in the next few (I hope). Romano's reaction to pancakes referenced pretty heavily from his reaction to churros. If you like churros, you'll love pancakes. Especially Canada's. _

_On that note, Canada was so busy being jealous that he missed a lot of really cute dialogue. Which meant you did, too. Sorry, you. _

_I have a lot of reviews/PMs to catch up on replying to. If you haven't received a reply yet, it's not because I haven't noticed you! Promise. I'm just a little behind. The fact that the review reply function is glitching does not help, either._

_Oh! _**LyingGal **_made an adorably apt fanart for me, link is in the profile. I've received some other fanarts, too, but I have to ask permission before I can link them, and as I mentioned before, I'm a bum. *little sigh*_

_Hope this finds you well~! _


	44. He's Missing Something, Alright

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

'Pathos'_ by **Monamourz **and '_The Aureate Poultry' _by **AozoraNoShita **both updated in the same day. I must have been very, very good to get such a treat._

**Edit: You may get a notice that chapter 45 is up. This is, alas, not true. I am not that boss. What _did_ happen was that my cat stepped on the keyboard while I was checking to see if the chapter title needed editing. My apologies for the mistake. **

* * *

"And that's all there is to it?" Romano asked, glancing at Canada for confirmation.

"Yes, pretty much." Canada affirmed, smiling. "There's another version that takes six hours to make, but it tastes pretty much the same. You just don't whip the egg whites."

"Huh." Romano looked back down at the batter. "That's not hard at all."

"It's pretty simple." Canada agreed. "The main thing is to remember not to overmix it, and to use fresh ingredients."

"Throw in some bacon, and you got yourself the best breakfast in the world." America grinned, dipping a finger into the batter and sticking it in his mouth.

"Don't do that, America." Canada chided, pulling the bowl out of his reach and moving towards the griddle. "Wait until it's cooked."

"You aren't really going to put bacon in it, are you?" Romano asked, following him to learn how pancakes were cooked, America close behind (making Canada feel a little like a mother duck with a mini duckling train). "I don't want any bacon in mine."

"No, I won't put any bacon in it." Canada reassured him. "America meant he likes bacon on the side. Separately."

"Although sometimes Canada makes these _amazing_ bacon waffles." America said, reaching down to toy with the loops in Romano's apron strings, threading them through each other. "He puts the bacon on the waffle iron and pours the waffle batter on top and smooshes it all together, and the waffle soaks up aallll the bacon grease and the whole thing gets nice and crispy and then he pours butter and syrup into all the little squares, and then Kumajiro and I fight over who gets the first one."

"Kumajiro?" Romano asked, unaware of what America was getting up to behind him.

"My bear." Canada explained, setting the bowl on the counter.

"You have a _bear?"_ Romano stared at Canada in disbelief. "Like, a _bear_ bear? An _actual_ _bear_."

"Yes, a real bear." Canada's smile was almost a grin. "He not as big as a normal bear, I can carry him in my arms, but he's still a real bear."

"Kuma may be little, but he can fight like a grizzly when it comes to waffles." America grinned, releasing Romano's apron strings to glance around the kitchen. "Where is he, anyway? I haven't seen him yet, I want to introduce him to Romano."

"To a _bear?"_ Romano reached back to grasp America's sleeve, staring between the two men as if they were crazy. "There's a _bear_ in the _house?"_

"Just a little one." America reassured him. "Like the size of a cub. He's really cute, you'll like him."

"Actually, Kumakiro isn't here." Canada corrected. "He's with Prussia."

"Oh, that's right, you had plans with Prussia this weekend." America's lips thinned for a second in distaste. "So how come you're here?" He asked, curious, adding hastily, "Not that I mind."

"He got called away, eh? And Kumaje's been bored with all the preparations for the upcoming meeting, and wanted to get out of the house, so he went along."

"Oh. Fair enough. Well, I'm glad you could make it down."

"Wait wait wait." Romano lifted a hand, brows furrowed uncertainly as he glanced between the two again. "Let me get this straight, bastards. _You,_" he pointed to Canada, "have a _bear, _and _you_," he pointed to America, whose lips twitched up in a smile, "have a _whale_ and an alien. Am I missing anything?"

"They're my friends!" America nodded. "Cool, huh?"

"Try 'weird', bastard."

"Did America tell you about his unicorn?" Canada asked, smiling a little mischievously. America snorted, rolling his eyes.

"England gave me a 'unicorn' a while back, for my birthday." He explained to Romano in confidential tones and air quotes, and shook his head a little pityingly. "I didn't have the heart to tell him he was nuts."

"You still keep a stall for it, though." Canada grinned. "And make sure it gets food and water, don't you, America."

"Just because it's imaginary doesn't mean I shouldn't take care of it. I can't let it starve." America defended, blushing a little in embarrassment. Canada grinned at him and turned to rifle through a drawer. America shifted and bit his lip, leaning down to whisper in Romano's ear. "You wanna know something funny, though?" Romano nodded, curious. "I haven't told anybody, but all the food and water I put out for it disappears, and I can't figure out where it goes." Romano glanced sharply up at him, suspecting him of trying to mess with him, but America's expression was perfectly serious. Romano pursed his lips.

"You know what I think, bastard?" He whispered back. America raised his eyebrows, curious. "I think you're nuts." America huffed a laugh.

"England's madness is catching, huh?" He murmured, grinning. "Guess I'm a lost cause, then."

"You're pretty hopeless." Romano agreed. He slid his hand into America's, squeezing it and smirking faintly. "Good thing you've got me to keep you sane."

"Yep." America's own grin widened as he threaded his fingers through Romano's, squeezing back. "You're my only hope."

"A_ha!" _The drawer slamming loudly on the other side of the kitchen startled them into springing apart. "Alright," Canada announced victoriously, having _finally_ found what he was looking for, and turned around to hold up a large serving spoon. "How about we cook these pancakes, eh?"

"W-what? Oh, right." Romano shook himself, a little disoriented, and returned his attention to the task at hand, turning away from America. Canada joined him at the griddle, and put down the spoon as he slipped back into 'teacher'-mode.

"You want the griddle or pan at a medium-high heat, usually around 93 -125 degrees." Romano made a little noise of understanding, nodding as he watched Canada pick up a little cup full of water that had been sitting next to the griddle.

"That's not right." America interrupted with a frown, leaning back against the counter next to Romano and looking at the temperature dial. "You have the dial set to 225 degrees."

"93- 125 _Celsius_, America. That's set for Fahrenheit." Canada pointed out, a little exasperated at having his lesson interrupted, and America wrinkled his nose and huffed in dismissal of an obviously inferior measurement system. Canada shot him a mild look and turned back to Romano. "I don't know if this would be an issue in Italy, but when you're cooking in North America you have to adjust cook times and temperatures a lot because the sea level varies so much from one place to the next. So I usually just use a little room-temperature water to check if the griddle is the right temperature." He dipped his fingers into the cup he held and flicked the a couple of drops of water onto the griddle, where they jumped and popped across the hot metal surface. "If it dances like that, then it's ready. If it just sits and sizzles, the griddle's too cold, and if it evaporates, it's too hot."

"And how long do they take to cook?" Romano asked, hovering over the griddle, the imminent prospect of food reminding him that he was hungry. "Not long, right? You said it wasn't long."

"Not long." Canada agreed, picking up the bowl of batter and using the serving spoon to pour a little onto the griddle. "About five minutes, or a little less. It's best to make a test one first, just in case you have to make adjustments to the recipe, eh?"

Romano nodded, understanding. That was one of the things that made cooking more of an _art_ than a science: you could use the same measurements and ingredients everytime and _still_ come out with different results; because no two eggs were the same size, or this batch of flour might have a higher moisture content than that one, this tomato might be more acidic than the last one, or one extra turn of the spoon could change the texture; air temperature and humidity, sea level and sometimes even time of day could all effect the results, and knowing how to compensate for that was— a tug at the back of his apron disrupted his train of thought, and made him look around. America was frowning concentration at his lower back and messing with his apron.

"What the hell—?" Romano frowned, trying to twist 'round to see what America was doing with his apron strings.

"Hold still a sec," America briefly pressed a hand to the back of his shoulder to prevent him from turning around, and pulled the back of his apron open. "Huh." Holding the ends he held it closed and tilted his head, bending forward a little to look at a bewildered Italian from the side, and straightened again, pulling the apron open and narrowing his eyes at Romano's back. "You know," he said, brows furrowing thoughtfully, "you're really kind of a slim guy."

Romano's eyes narrowed, a little affronted. "_Excuse_ me? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Well, it's just, at first I thought it was just 'cause this apron's so big on you it made you look small." America continued, tying the apron back up. "But nope, it's all you. You're littler than you look."

Romano slapped his hands away and elbowed him in the stomach, irritation increasing when it had no noticable effect. The bastard didn't even have the grace to flinch."Excuse me for not being a giant." He growled, flushing self-consciously. As if he _needed_ to be reminded that he was the smallest, weakest person in the vicinity. He knew that, dammit! "Not all of us can be muscle-bound freaks of nature like you."

"I didn't mean it like that. It's kind of neat, actually." America said, latching onto his best friend and pulling him close. "You're perfect the way you are, Romano." He smiled, wrapping his arms securely around the Italian's waist and pressing his cheek against Romano's with a contented little sound. "See? Perfect." He said happily. "Isn't it nice? We fit together just right."

"W-well..." Romano's mind went blank as flustered embarrassment and flustered pleasure suddenly warred for dominance, torn between pushing America away and melting into the firm warmth wrapped around him and pressed against his back (it _was_ very nice). But Canada was watching, so embarrassment and habit won out over melting by a narrow margin; and he half-heartedly shrugged out of America's embrace. "G-get off me, idiot," he protested weakly, pushing at the hands clasped at his waist, " I'm supposed to be cooking."

"Okay." America agreed, unfazed, and straightened, relaxing his hold only slightly. "I should go bring in the stuff from the garage, anyway; it should be dry by now. Do you want me to put it in your room, or somewhere else?"

"M-my room is fine." Romano's heart thudded in his ears, and he was very aware of America's hands lingering at his hips. "In the, uh, c-closet."

"'Kay." America nodded, grasp tightening briefly on Romano's hips in acknowledgement and nuzzling his hair in farewell before he let go. "I'll go take care of that, then. Be back in a bit. Save me some pancakes, guys!"

"Don't worry, there'll be plenty." Canada assured him over his shoulder, and turned to Romano, pointing to the pancake on the griddle with a spatula. "This side is done. See how the edges are firming up, and all the little bubbles? That means it's ready to be turned over." Romano nodded, and Canada slid the spatula under the cake and flipped it over, continuing, "The second side takes half as long to cook, sometimes less; a minute or two and it's done. Don't worry if it doesn't brown as easily on that side, it never does."

"Okay." Romano exhaled, nodding; kind of relieved to have something as...normal and reassuring as cooking to focus on and distract him from the way his heart was pattering and how nice the solid warmth of America's body pressed against his back and the arms around his waist had felt.

Canada slid the spatula under the test cake and dropped it on a plate. "And there we are." He turned to Romano and smiled, lifting the bowl from the counter and holding it out. "Ready to try it on your own, South Italy?"

"Un, yeah." Romano accepted the bowl America's brother offered, and ladled a spoonful of batter onto the griddle.

Canada nodded in approval. "That's good, but if you pour it from just about here," he reached over to press down on the neck of the spoon with two fingers, guiding it closer to the surface of the griddle, "they'll come out nice and round and even."

"I got it, bastard." Romano frowned, pulling his hand away. "I can do it."

"You're right, sorry." Canada smiled apologetically as he retracted his hand, feeling a little silly for having corrected him (South Italy was a gourmet, wasn't he? He'd have been able to figure it out on his own).

Romano poured out five more pancakes with a little frown of concentration, keeping the tip of the spoon close to the griddle like Canada had shown him, and set the bowl back on the counter to wait for them to be ready to flip. This really wasn't too difficult. Staring at the batter was even kind of soothing. That was one of the nice things about cooking; you knew where you stood, with food.

Canada chewed his lower lip for a second, watching South Italy watch the pancakes. It was very quiet in the kitchen without America there to noisy things up. But he was kind of glad that his brother was gone, for the moment. It gave him time to think.

Because things were starting to fall into place.

"Hey, South Italy..." He said hesitantly, playing a hunch. South Italy looked up from the pancakes.

"Hm?"

Canada shifted, clearing his throat. "This may be a silly question," He said carefully, trying to sound nonchalant, "but is your human name 'Lovino Vargas'?"

South Italy's brows furrowed. "Yes." He replied slowly. "Why?"

"Just curious." Canada said distantly, staring at nothing in particular on the other side of the kitchen. His brother was an idiot. "I saw it on a notepad in the living room and was wondering who it was, but then I realised it was probably you." Turning back to Romano, he smiled sweetly. "Um, I'm going to make some coffee. Would you like some?" He offered, tipping his head towards the coffeemaker.

South Italy shook his head, returning his attention to the pancakes. "I'm good."

"Okay." Going to the cupboard where America kept the coffee things, he began pulling out the coffee and filters. "So... you and America are... best friends, now?" He asked neutrally. (_His brother was an idiot_. Which wasn't anything new, Canada had to admit. But there had to be limits to how dense you could be, and his brother was definitely pushing the envelope.)

Watching the Canadian a little warily, because something about America's brother's _politeness_ was making him nervous, Romano cursed the way his face heated up. "Y-yeah, we are."

"Well, that's nice." Canada busied himself preparing the coffeemaker, slotting the filters in place and filling the reservoir with water as he talked. Keeping busy helped. Why did America always have to make everything so _difficult? _"He's always wanted one, ever since we were little. A best friend, that is. He used to talk about it all the time, wondering what his best friend would be like, and imagining what he and his best friend would do together, stuff like that." He measured out the grounds, voice growing distant. "We'd be out on a picnic and he'd go, 'I wonder if my best friend will eat this kind of thing', or we'd be getting ready for bed and he'd look out the window and say 'Do you think the person who's going to be my best friend is looking at that moon, too?'"

Romano turned the pancakes automatically, the mental image of America as a child, his tiny form bathed in moonlight as he stared at the moon with big, blue eyes vivid in his mind. He could see America doing that, even now.

"I offered to be his best friend once, but he turned me down. He said a best friend had to be someone 'super-special'." One side of Canada's mouth pulled back in a smile of resignation. America hadn't mean it the way it sounded, he knew that; and he'd backtracked almost immediately, but it'd still stung. But he'd come to realise what America had meant, and he'd been right, though it'd stung to admit it. They were too different. They wanted different things, had different tastes and _priorities_.

Funny how America could notice that, but not this. Sometimes he just didn't understand his brother. What was going on in his _head?_

"Of course, he didn't talk about it as much when we got older, but I don't think he ever forgot." He paused, and put the coffeepot in place. "He tends not to." He pressed the button to brew the coffee, and turned around, leaning back against the counter and smiling brightly. "And now, here you are."

Romano shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, not sure why Canada was telling him all this, or how he was supposed to react. Canada pushed himself off the counter, and went to another cupboard, pulling out some cups.

"You're probably wondering why I'm telling you all this, eh?" He said pleasantly as he worked. "Well, I guess I just thought you should know. How much it means to him, to have a best friend. America..." He trailed off, staring at the cup he held. Abruptly, he slammed it down on the counter, making Romano jump.

"America's an idiot." Canada stated hotly, spinning around. Alarmed, Romano clutched the spatula, cowering behind the thin bit of plastic in the hope that it would protect him as America's brother lost his mind. "He really is."

Canada exhaled, hissing, and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "He's stupid, and thoughtless, and obstinate, and stupid, and _loud_, and stupid, and he can't read the atmosphere to save his_ life_." He ranted to the kitchen at large, and Romano glanced at the door, wondering if he could make it out of the kitchen before Canada attacked, or if he should just scream for America and hope he got here in time. "He does everything _bass-fucking-ackwards_. And did I mention he's stupid? Gah! Everytime I think he can't get any _stupider_ he does something that proves me wrong!" He threw his hands in the air, growling exasperatedly. "He's the biggest, fattest, _stupidest—"_ The spatula bounced off his forehead, stopping him short.

"Don't you talk about America like that, jerk!" Flushed and shaking in mingled fear and anger, Romano pointed furiously at America's brother, and grabbed the bowl of batter off the counter. Canada blinked in surprise as Romano brandished the batter-covered spoon at him, but determined. "You, you shouldn't say things like that about him, bastard!"

Canada held up his hands in a placating gesture, and stared at him, brows raised, for a long moment. Romano stared back, panting.

Canada opened his mouth, closed it again, and smiled, tilting his head. "You really like him, huh? My brother."

Romano felt his face grow hot, but stood firm, not looking away (granted, partly so he would see it if Canada decided to attack). "H-he's..." He swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice from shaking. If America could say it, so could he, dammit. "He's m-my b-best friend, bastard. And he's your brother," He added, a little more strongly. "You shouldn't talk about him like that. He doesn't say that sort of shit about you."

Canada blinked again, and then blushed, lowering his hands. "Alright. You're right, I shouldn't have said those things." He apologised sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck in a gesture that reminded Romano very much of America. "I got a little carried away, I'm sorry. I don't usually do that, honest. I really don't, eh? It's just...stress, you know? And America..." He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes screwed shut. "Sometimes my brother drives me _nuts_. Especially when he's..." he paused, dropping his hand and giving Romano a look he couldn't decipher, "...being stupid."

Romano frowned uncertainly, fingers shifting on the handle of the spoon. "...What do you mean, 'being stupid', bastard?" Did America's brother think he wasn't good enough to be America's best friend? Did he think it was 'stupid' that they were together, or something?

Canada gave him another indecipherable look, and shrugged. "It's just that sometimes America can't see something even when it's staring him right in the face, eh?" He said cryptically, which didn't reassure Romano at all, and smiled, picking up the spatula and holding it out to Romano. "Your pancakes are burning."

"Shit!" Romano spun around, putting the bowl down with one hand and grabbing the spatula from Canada with the other, and scraped the smoking cakes onto a plate. "Shit! These're _ruined_, dammit!"

"It's okay, it happens. America will still eat them." Canada said, sounding amused. "Just set them aside and I'll pour a lot of syrup on them. He won't be able to tell the difference."

"...Are you serious?" Romano glanced between the burned cakes and Canada's smile, a little incredulous.

"Seriously, he'll eat them."

"Eugh. That's _disgusting_." Romano wrinkled his nose in disgust at the thought, and looked around for the garbage so he could dispose of the ruined pancakes. "You're kidding, right bastard? He wouldn't _really_ eat them. They're all _burned."_

"America eats a lot of things." Canada sighed.

"Hey guys, I'm back!" With impeccable timing, America re-entered the scene. "I got everything into the closet, except for the stuffed animals, which I put on your bed. Are the pancakes ready yet?" He caught sight of the plate in Romano's hands and his smile widened. "Sweet! Are those for me?"

"These are for the garbage." Romano informed him. "They got burned."

"Yeah? Lemme see." America came over to peer at the pancakes. "They're not so bad, they should be okay." He moved to take the plate, but Romano pulled it away.

"You're crazy, bastard, they're practically charcoal."

"Pfffft, no they're not." America refuted, reaching for the plate again. "Put a little syrup on 'em and they'll be fine."

"America, they're _burned._" Romano insisted, holding the plate out of his reach.

"They're _fine_." America insisted back. "C'mon, Romano, I'm _hungry_."

"But you'll get _sick_." Romano looked to Canada. "Help me out here, bastard. Tell him he'll get sick."

"Sorry." Canada held up his hands, smiling neutrally. "I don't get between America and food. I like to live, eh?"

"Come on, 'Mano." America appealed, finally managing to grasp the plate in both hands. "You made them, right? Nothing you made could possibly hurt me."

Romano hesitated, debating, and then sighed, releasing the plate. "Fine. But don't blame me if you get sick."

"I won't." America reassured him confidently. "A little syrup and they'll be as good as new."

Romano returned to the griddle to make more pancakes, wincing as he heard America crunching through the burned ones behind him. Ugh. _Ugh_. He shuddered. The bastard was _actually eating_ them. He was attracted to someone who ate _charcoal._ He glanced over his shoulder to where America sat, attacking the cakes with every sign of enjoyment. America caught his gaze and smiled, and Romano flushed as his heart fluttered and something warm pooled in his stomach. Quickly, he turned around, pouring fresh batter onto the hot nonstick surface a little morosely. The bastard was eating _charcoal_ and he _still_ found him attractive. He was _doomed. _

"Hey, Romano," America said, nonchalantly, "you wear jewelry, right? I mean, I know you wear rings and stuff, but, you wear other kinds of jewelry too, right? Like bracelets or necklaces, or, I don't know, pins and things? Just curious."

"...Yeah, sure, I guess. Sometimes." Romano admitted cautiously. "...If they're not tacky."

"Well, yeah, obviously." America agreed, still nonchalantly. "I mean, of course, if it's not tacky. But you'd wear it if it's not tacky, right?"

"...Possibly. Maybe." Romano conceded, prodding a pancake. "Why?"

"Oh, no reason." America said airily, hanging onto nonchalance. "Just curious."

Canada stifled a snort by trying to turn it unconvincingly into a cough, and America looked at him with concern.

"You okay, Mattie?"

"I'm fine, America." Canada smiled, patting his chest. "Just a frog in my throat, eh? I've just made some coffee, would you like a cup? There's maple syrup in it."

"Yeah, sure, thanks. What happened to your head?"

"What do you mean?" Canada's brows furrowed in puzzlement as he poured the coffee.

"You've got a mark, right here." America pointed to his own forehead to indicate the spot. "You bump it or somethin'?"

"Oh." Canada smiled sheepishly, handing America the cup. "Spatula got me. Y'know how clumsy I can be sometimes, eh?"

"You dork." America grinned and shook his head, reaching up to rub the mark on his brother's forehead with his thumb. "You gotta be careful, Mattie. You could lose an eye that way."

"I'm fine, Al." Canada batted his hand away, sitting down. "I'm probably just tired, eh? I've been running around the last couple of weeks getting things ready for the meeting. Besides, with one thing and another I didn't get any sleep last night."

"Yeah, 'Mano and I didn't either." America grinned sympathetically, sipping his coffee. "You excited about the meeting? Need any help with anything?"

"Nah, I've got it covered. I'm looking forward to it, yknow?" Canada smiled, leaning his elbows on the table. "I like it when the meetings are at my house. Hosting is fun. People notice me."

"I like it when they're at your house, too." America agreed. "Saves me a long trip, _and_ I don't have to clean up afterward."

"Don't remind me." Canada sighed, slumping in his seat.

"Oi, bastards." Romano interjected, holding a plate of pancakes. "Where's the stuff you put on these pancakes? The syrup."

"Oh," Canada sat up again, "I left it next to the coffeemaker. And the butter's right here. If you'd like to sit down and eat those, I can handle making the rest of the pancakes." He added, poised to get up from his seat.

"'Kay." Romano snagged the syrup and carried it to the table, setting it down next to the pancakes and reaching for the butter.

"That looks good." America commented, leaning his chin in his hand.

"These are mine." Romano informed him, dousing the golden stack liberally in equally golden syrup. "You're not getting any."

"Mm." America lowered his lashes, amused, and flashed him a grin that was (although he wasn't aware of it) almost predatory. "I can wait."

"That's good." Too preoccupied to spare him a glance, Romano set down the syrup and picked up his fork. "'Cause I'm not sharing."

"You really like pancakes, don't you, 'Mano." America chuckled. "I'm glad."

"_Mmmm_." Romano moaned over his first mouthful, unheeding of anything that wasn't delicious, maple-y pancakes, and swallowed, licking traces of syrup from his lips.

"The next batch will be ready in just a couple of minutes, America." Canada reassured him.

"Okay." America said absently, sipping his coffee as he watched his friend. Romano sure seemed to be enjoying his pancakes. Which was understandable, because pancakes were delicious, especially with maple syrup. Delicious, delicious maple syrup. Which was getting all over Romano's fingers. Romano's long, dextrous fingers, wrapped lithe and sinuous around the silver handle of his fork. Well, that could happen, with syrup. Sometimes it tended to drip when you weren't looking. Just like it had on Romano's fingers, where it gleamed golden on fine, sun-darkened skin, glistening thick on the slim knuckles of Romano's first two fingers and the pad of his thumb. Whenever that happened to him, he'd just lick it off. Would Romano let him do that? Reach across the table, and take him by that slim wrist, and slide those fingers into his mouth, wrapping his tongue around warm skin and sticky syrup and _why was he thinking about licking his best friend's fingers?_

Covering the lower half of his face with his hand, America turned away and sunk down in his seat, face burning. His stomach churned in guilt and confusion. _Shit_. What was _wrong_ with him? Licking Romano? That was _definitely_ not normal. Romano was his _best friend_, not a dessert. So why was he thinking about sucking maple syrup off his fingers? He'd thought about it earlier, too; when he'd been feeding Romano his pancakes and Romano'd had that little drop of golden syrup on his chin and he'd wanted to lean across the table and slide his hand behind Romano's neck and lick the syrup— Wait. Oh. _Oh._ Maple syrup. Of _course_. Syrup, it was the_ syrup_. He was craving maple syrup!

He'd read about that somewhere: sometimes if your body was missing some vital vitamins or minerals, you'd experience strange urges. Like, you'd crave red meat if the iron in your blood was low, or sugar if you needed vitamin C, and stuff like that. Some deficiencies even lead you to crave weird things, like dirt. Maple syrup probably contained important vitamins and minerals that he was missing, and that was causing him to have these strange urges. That was probably also why he was feeling lightheaded and his stomach was all strange and tingly, and why his heart was beating so fast; it was all symptoms of a deficiency. His body was trying to tell him he needed maple syrup!

America practically melted in relief. Thank _God._ He wasn't _weird_, he was just missing something important. Well, that was easy enough to fix. He knew where he could get _loads_ of maple syrup. "Hey, Mattie, can you make sure I have extra syrup on my pancakes?" He asked, looking over his shoulder to where his brother was loading a freshly-made stack onto a plate.

"Of course, America." Canada beamed, always pleased to have his syrup appreciated. "It's right on the table in front of you, though, so you can do it yourself."

"Oh, cool. Thanks. Do you have any more? This bottle's half empty, and I'm kind of craving maple syrup."

"Sure thing, America. I always keep a case in the car, you know that." Canada assured him, settling the plate down in front of his brother. "I'd be happy to let you have some. How much do you want?"

America glanced at Romano, and swallowed, hard, because Romano had syrup on his lips now, too, and the sight of it was making him crave syrup like nobody's business. 'Mano's _adorable_ little pink tongue flicked out to lick it off, and his stomach did something electric and hot, and he felt dizzy with desire for syrup, his pulse pounding in his ears. Fuck. His symptoms were getting worse.

He _really_ needed syrup. He needed syrup _so bad._

"All of it." America almost whimpered, reaching for the bottle, and swallowed again. _"Please."_

* * *

_AN: America needs syrup badly._

_New fanart courtesy of **RandomHatTheif,** who drew the cuddling scene from chapter 42 pretty much exactly as I imagined it, and a cute little sketch from **Bliss-chan** of Romano getting all teary XD. There's also some lovely Romerica AMVs made by **1223rhys **on Youtube. Links to all these on my profile! _

_I actually intended to go on, to get into Canada's head and clarify why he got all upset, and Romano's, which has been long-delayed, and also they were **finally** supposed to get to the pictures; but then America started craving syrup and the chapter had to end. That's okay though, there's always next chapter._

_Canada is not that much more subtle than America, sometimes. But having a passive-aggressive personality gives you an edge in that sort of thing._

_I am totally going somewhere with that unicorn, by the way. You shall see. And if you aren't familiar with it, England gave America a unicorn for his Bicentennial birthday. Later strips show America taking care of it, although he can't see it (it seems to adore him though- and he took the chains off, which is nice, I hate to see unicorns in chains, it makes me uncomfortable. Anything in chains, really. Why would England need to chain it, anyway? Seriously. You don't generally need to chain unicorns unless- well, I'll go into that later, along with probably a lot more mythical creature lore than anyone is interested in. Still, it was a sweet gift.)_

_Oh, speaking of unicorns, that reminds me of a story, which I shall share with you although it's pretty embarrassing, because sometimes writing this story triggers odd memories I'd almost forgotten._

_Once, when I was a little kid (about seven?), a friend asked me to take care of her imaginary friend for a while, because she was going on a trip with her family, and she couldn't take it on the plane. _

_Now, I didn't believe in imaginary friends, but I knew that she did, and it was important to her, and that it was a sign of trust that she would ask me to take care of it, so I agreed, even though it felt super-silly. So for a couple weeks I looked after it, 'feeding' it imaginary hay in the morning before school (it was a horse, of course), say hello to it when I got home, taking it out for walks in the desert in the evenings after I was done with homework and pick prickly pears for it to eat (we lived in Arizona at the time). Sometimes I'd bring it down to where the real horses ran wild in the canyons, a few miles out from where we lived, and let it run with them for a while (shhh don't tell anybody I played with wild horses, if my parents had ever found out I'd have been in trouble). __I groomed it like she told me to (I don't know if you've ever brushed an imaginary horse, but it is a lot like brushing air), and patted it, and I'd even talk to it. I checked its hooves once. I don't remember the creature's name, only that it was a super-frilly girly name, like 'Sparkle-Rainbow' or 'Cloud-Feathers' or something equally embarrassing to say out loud, even alone in the desert, and certainly in front of the horses. I always called it 'hey, you', and if it minded, it never indicated. _

_One night I had an unusually difficult homework project, that took me longer than I'd expected to complete, and I ended up falling asleep right after. I woke up to the moon shining through my window, and jumped out of bed in alarm, feeling guilty because I'd forgotten to feed my friend's imaginary horse friend, and so I snuck outside to untie it, feed a quick snack and take if for a super-short walk in the desert, with a promise that I'd give it twice as much imaginary hay for breakfast and take it out for an extra-long walk after I was home from school. It didn't protest, so I assume it forgave my lapse on that occasion._

_I was glad when my friend got back and reclaimed her imaginary friend, and she was glad I'd taken such good care of it, and assured me that the imaginary horse with the frilly name was very happy in my care, so there we were, all happy. _

_But._

_It's really kind of embarrassing even now, and I didn't want to admit this even to myself, but for the first couple days after she took him back, it was a little lonely to see the empty space containing nothing where there used to be an empty space containing imaginary horse. I kind of missed 'hey, you', just a little bit, even if he didn't exist. _


	45. And It's Back On

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

_So, I had an ear surgery the other day, which was kind of interesting (the day before New Year's I put a Q-tip through my ear, freak accident). I was a little nervous beforehand, since it was my first surgery, and they were going to open up my head, and I like my eardrums— I use them to hear things, you see— but it turned out pretty neat actually. I'm still a little disappointed that I didn't get to watch, but since they had to open up my ear and part of my scalp it was kind of impossible. I __**did **__get them to promise me any pictures or video they ended up taking, though, so that's something._

_(Also I may have kind of tried to leave the post-op recovery room a few times once I regained consciousness after the general anesthetic wore off, and the nurses kept having to try and keep me in bed and drug me down again, only to repeat the next time I 'woke up'. I felt bad for them, poor things. I can be stubborn, especially when I don't have full cognitive clarity.)_

_On the other hand though, most of this chapter was written under the influence of residual drugs after the surgery, and although my head feels pretty clear to me right now I'm told some of them can take a few days to flush. I'm avoiding the narcotics they gave me to kill pain (I'm not feeling too much except some twinges when I poke my stitches, but as I told sakerat, I just won't poke them for a while), because I am not a big fan of narcotics, or unnecessary drugs of any kind, really._

_On the plus side (sort of) I'm not supposed to do __**anything**__ even remotely strenuous for the next two weeks, except sit around and sometimes walk. I'm not supposed to sneeze, cough, bend over, blow my nose (which sucks 'cause I still have a cold) lift anything heavier than 10 lbs, strain in any fashion whatsoever, get wet, and I'm even supposed to sleep sitting up, which okay, I can do, sure whynot. All of that and more on the 'do not do' list pretty much leaves me with one option: writing! So hopefully I can do some of that in the next couple weeks. Barring incident._

* * *

"Oh, America," Canada remembered, picking an envelope up off the counter next to the sink and handing it to his brother along with a fresh stack of pancakes, "I found this on the table when I was cleaning up. I don't know what you wanted to do with it."

"Hm?" America glanced up from watching Romano, automatically accepting both envelope and pancakes from his brother. He examined the envelope as he set the slightly-sticky plate down in front of him. "Oh, the pictures Nino sent. I thought they were still in the jacket." He licked syrup from his fingers wiped them on his shirt before he opened it, dumping the pictures out into his hand. "Y'know, I should find my camera. We should get lots of pictures while you're here, Romano."

"Feliciano sent a camera along," Romano admitted as he licked his fork, and reached for America's neglected plate, trading it with his own empty one. "I forgot about that. It's in one of the drawers up in my room I think."

"You'll have to get it out." America said absently, examining the pictures. "I want lots of pictures of our time together." He smiled fondly at one of the pictures, of Romano focused on fixing his cufflinks, and him smiling down at the Italian nation as he fussed with them. "Aw. We're so cute together! Look at this, Romano." He held the picture out for Romano's inspection, adding, "You're so cute in this one!" Romano flushed slightly, glancing at it and nodding, not wanting to admit he'd already seen them; and quickly averted his eyes to his appropriated pancakes, while America called over to Canada. "Mattie, c'mere, you gotta see these. They're so cute!"

"Mmh," Canada acquiesced, mouth full, and came over from where he'd been leaning against the counter nibbling on pancakes to look. He licked butter and syrup off his fingers and wiped them on his pants before reaching for the picture America held out to him. "Yep, pretty cute." He agreed, handing it back and glancing through the rest of pictures over his brother's shoulder. "That suit looks good on you, America. The color really brings out your eyes."

"Pretty sharp, huh? 'Mano picked it out." America agreed, flipping to the next picture, smiling reminiscently at the image of himself wiping chocolate crumbs from Romano's mouth. "Those biscotti were really good."

Canada's brows furrowed thoughtfully. "I don't recognise these," he noted absently, noticing that while the clothes America and South Italy were wearing in these pictures were the same as the ones they'd worn in the photos Prussia had shown him, they didn't seem to be from the same set of pictures. He didn't know much about photography, but Prussia was pretty interested in it, and as far as he could tell from what he'd picked up from Prussia he'd guess these were taken with an analog camera, instead of a digital one. Of course, that _could_ just mean that Prussia _had_ photoshopped the ones he'd shown him...

"Well, of course not, Mattie." America commented offhandedly, smiling at the picture of Romano fixing his handkerchief. Maybe he could get some of these framed? Or maybe they could make an album... "They were taken in Italy. That reminds me," he lowered the pictures to address Romano, "I wanted to ask if you mind if I frame that drawing you did of the shoe cabinet?"

"What?" Romano glanced up, brows furrowing.

"The drawing you did of the shoe cabinet." America repeated patiently. "I want to frame it. I can photocopy it and make the shoe cabinet with the copy, instead. Is that cool?"

"Mm..." Romano reached for a glass of water to wash down his mouthful of pancake before responding, "yeah, I guess?"

"Cool, thanks. I should frame these, too." America lifted the pictures again, flipping through them quickly. There weren't many, and he'd already seen them all, but they were pretty cute. His and Romano's first time out together! Well, aside from business stuff and the diner, but that didn't really count. Especially since the diner was technically business stuff, too. "Or maybe put them in an album. Immortalize the start of our friendship!"

"That sounds like a nice idea, America." Canada pulled out a chair and sat down next to his brother to continue eating in more comfort. "England likes scrapbooking, maybe he can give you some tips."

America hummed thoughtfully as he slid the pictures back into the envelope, and nodded. "Couldn't hurt to ask."

"You could call him now." Canada suggested, partly to help his brother and partly because he was very interested to see how that call would go, considering what England thought America had been up to lately. "It's afternoon in England, after all. He'll be up. I'm sure he'd be happy to help you out."

America grimaced, setting the envelope aside. "Yeah, no thanks. I'll wait 'til after the meeting." _When he calms down a little_, he added privately to himself, and looked down at the plate in front of him, a little surprised to find it empty, when last he checked it'd had a stack of pancakes on it. Had he eaten them while he wasn't looking? He had to admit it was possible. Especially considering the syrup deficiency he was suffering from. Maybe that was messing with his memory. With a mental shrug, he got up to get more pancakes.

"Mph," Canada stuffed the last of his own pancakes into his mouth and got up, dumping his plate in the sink to be washed as he swallowed, "I'm going to grab that syrup from the car before I forget."

"Okay, thanks Mattie." America waved the hand holding his fork in acknowledgement from where he helped himself to more pancakes from the stack warming in the oven, where Canada had put them after he finished cooking the bowl of batter so they wouldn't get cold.

"Back in a minute." Canada said as he left the kitchen.

A ringing sound filled the kitchen, and Romano shifted in his seat, pulling out his cell and checking the number. "_Ugh_." His face screwed up in disgust. America shut the over door and looked over, curious.

"Something wrong?"

"It's France." Romano admitted, lip curling. "I keep telling that bastard not to call me, but he never listens, dammit. He's always calling to harass me and send me pictures of shit I don't need to see, and he just won't stop."

"Hm." America frowned, brows furrowing as he pulled out his chair and sat down with his pancakes. "Want me to talk to him?" He offered, holding out his hand for the still-ringing phone. "I might be able to help."

Romano barely even had to consider it. He handed the phone over easily. "Tell him you'll shoot him if he doesn't stop." America flashed him a smile, and answered the phone.

"Romano Italy's phone, this is America speaking. Hey France. Yeah, he's here, but he doesn't want to talk to you. Romano says he's asked you not to call him several times." He frowned, arching an eyebrow unamusedly. "No, I'm pretty sure he meant it."

"Tell him you'll bomb him if he keeps it up!" Romano leaned over the table. "Or shoot him if sends me any more pictures!"

"I don't think I'll need to bomb or shoot France, Romano. He can be pretty reasonable." America flashed him another grin, and returned to the phone, more seriously. "France, from now on if you have something to say to Romano that's not related to business, call me and I'll pass it on if it's something he needs to hear. That goes for texts and pictures, too. And if you need to talk to him about business you can call his boss." He glanced at Romano for confirmation. "That sound good, Romano?"

"Yeah, I guess." Romano pursed his lips, a little disgruntled that there were no threats of violence. America could've at _least_ threatened to feed him to a moose or something. "As long as I never have to talk to the bastard again."

"Yeah, we _are_ getting along pretty well!" America laughed, agreeing with whatever France was saying. "What? Hang on one second, I'll ask him." He placed a hand over the reciever to address Romano. "France wants to know if you've heard from Spain recently. I guess he's been trying to call him and hasn't gotten a response."

Romano frowned, settling back down in his seat and picking his fork back up. "No. I left him a message but he hasn't called me back either. He's probably lost his phone again." America nodded, relaying the message.

"Romano says he hasn't been able to get ahold of him either. He thinks he's lost his phone." He listened for a moment. "Mhm. Prussia either? Oh, you don't have to do that, Mattie's here actually. Yeah, he stopped by this morning. He's grabbing syrup from the car but he'll be back in a— oh, there he is. Hang on, I'll ask." He lowered the phone again as Canada reentered the kitchen carrying a box. "Hey, Mattie. France says he can't get ahold of Prussia. You know where he is?"

"Um," Canada paused in the door for a moment, a little off-guard by the question. He shifted his grip on the box, and continued across the kitchen. "No," he admitted, setting his burden on the counter. "He just said he had to go help out a friend. He didn't say who or where. He's not answering his phone?"

"France says no."

"Hm. Let me try." Canada pulled out his own phone, dialling and waiting.

"Mattie's gonna try calling him, France. Hang on a sec."

They waited for several moments as Canada tried to reach Prussia. Finally he frowned, hanging up and pocketing his phone. "No, sorry. He's not answering me, either."

"'Kay. Yeah, Mattie says he can't get through. Isn't he related to Germany? You did? Hm. I dunno then, sorry. Yeah, I'll pass it on. No problem. Oh, and France?" He smiled sharply. "I'm serious about what I said. If I find out you've been bothering Romano I won't be very happy." He paused, listening to France's response, and nodded, seeming satisfied. "Yeah, you too. I'll tell him. We'll see you at the meeting! Bye bye. France sends his love," He told Canada as he hung up, and handed the phone back to Romano, adding, "Let me know if he bothers you anymore. He said he'd stop, but if he doesn't, I'll take care of it." Romano nodded his understanding, accepting the phone.

"If he does, will you shoot him?" He asked hopefully. "Or feed him to your whale, or something."

"I'll take care of it." America reassured him, grinning. "You just let me know."

"Where do you want this syrup, America?" Canada asked, lifting the case from the counter.

"I'll take one now, and the rest can go in the pantry." America answered, pouring the last of the syrup from the bottle on the table onto his pancakes.

"Okay." Canada shifted the box to one arm so he could reach into it with the other and retrieve a bottle and hand it to his brother.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome." Canada smiled, and continued on to the pantry. "What's with all the boxes in here?"

"Oh, that's 'Mano's pasta and stuff." America responded, uncapping the bottle and resuming his efforts to drench his pancakes in syrup. "Don't worry about it, you can just work around it."

"Okay." Canada gingerly nudged one of the several cases sitting on the floor of the pantry aside so he could enter, and began unloading the maple syrup into the pantry.

Finally satisfied with the small lake of syrup surrounding his island of pancakes, America capped the bottle and set it aside, picking up his fork and digging in. "Mm," he said appreciatively at his first bite. "That hits the spot. These are really good."

"Thank South Italy, he did most of the work making them." Canada said graciously from the pantry.

"Haha, is that right?" America grinned at Romano. "These are really good, Romano."

Romano nodded, finishing off his own. "It's a lot easier than I thought. They're pretty simple to make."

"Yeah? That's good." America took another bite, and chuckled. "Y'know Mattie," He called to his brother, teasing, "now that Romano can make pancakes, I guess I don't need you anymore."

For several long seconds there was no response; and then there was a loud crash from the pantry, accompanied by the sound of a lot of glass breaking.

"Mattie? You okay?" America paused in his eating to stare at the pantry door. "What happened?"

"I'm fine," Canada called reassuringly, sounding a little strained. "I'm afraid I accidentally dropped the box of syrup onto South Italy's things. My bad, eh?"

"It's okay. They're closed, the pasta should be fine." America asserted, getting up to grab a broom and dustpan to help clean up the mess. "As long as you're not hurt it's all good."

"Uhh, actually," Canada answered carefully. "I opened them so I could put a few bottles of maple syrup in there for South Italy to take home, and the box of syrup fell on top of them. By accident."

"Well, he had a lot of cases, so— oh," America paused at the door to the pantry, taken aback by by the extent of the mess. "Uh-oh." He blinked, lowering the broom. "Well, that's not good."

"What? What's wrong?" Alarmed, Romano left the table and hurried to check on the state of his precious pasta. At the door, he gaped in horror. Each of the pasta-packed cases lay open, and glass shards and syrup dripping all over the pasta inside.

"I, uh, thought I'd put a bottle in each case." Canada lifted a shoulder sheepishly from where he stood on the far side of the cases, surrounded by glass and syrup, holding one intact bottle— apparently the _only_ intact bottle. "To distribute the weight, you know? So it wouldn't be too heavy for South Italy to carry."

Romano saw red. "You bastard!" He shouted furiously, pointing at Canada, who quailed, neck and shoulders drawing in. "You did this on purpose to get back at me for the spatula! I don't care if your pancakes are amazing, I'll kill you!" He lunged forward, and America caught him before he could enter the closet.

"Careful Romano, the glass!" He cautioned, holding his infuriated friend back. "You could get hurt!"

"I don't care! I can't live without pasta! That bastard did it on purpose!"

"Calm down Romano! I'm sure Mattie didn't do it on purpose. It was an accident, an accident!" America tried to settle him down.

"I don't care if it was! My pasta is _ruined! _I _can't live without pasta!"_ Romano wailed, flailing his arms and legs in America's grasp. "I'll _die!_"

"It's okay Romano, we'll get you some more!" America reassured him. "We can get more pasta, okay? It'll be alright!"

"It's no good if it's not _real_ pasta!" Romano's face had gone very red in distress, and he was starting to cry. "This was supposed to last me a week! What am I going to do without pasta! I'm going to die!"

"You're not going to die, Romano," America squeezed his shoulder steadyingly, and rubbed his back. "It's okay, we'll clean this mess up and I'll call my PA and we can have a shipment of pasta here in a couple of hours, okay? Just write down what kind of pasta you need and I'll make sure you get it right away."

"_Real_ pasta?" Romano sniffed a little doubtfully, rubbing his eyes and looking at America got confirmation. "Do you even _have_ pasta in America?"

"Of course!" America nodded. "After all, Mattie and I grow most of the durum wheat you use in Italy to make pasta, remember? And a lot of Americans are very picky about their pasta, too— especially my Italian-Americans; so don't worry! We'll get you anything you need."

"You promise, bastard?" Romano wiped away the last of his tears, his flush receding as his temper and distress abated. "_Real_ pasta, right?"

"Real pasta." America confirmed. "Just write down what kind you need, and what brands you want, and how much, and I'll call my guys and we'll have it sent right away. It'll be alright, I promise."

"Well...alright." Romano nodded, and hiccupped a little. "As long as it's real pasta. But it'd better be _good_ pasta, dammit!"

"It will." America patted his shoulder, and started to say something else when his attention was caught by a whimpering sound from Canada, and a tinkle of glass. He looked over to see Canada drop a shard of glass with a wince, his cheeks flushing. "You okay, Mattie? What happened?"

"I, I was trying to clean up a little," Canada admitted sheepishly, lifting his index finger to show the bleeding cut across the fingerpad, tears swimming in his eyes, "and, and I cut myself."

America put a hand to his forehead, mouth pulling back in dismay. "Aw, Mattie." He sighed. "You should have waited for me to clean it up for you! I'll get you a bandaid and fix you up. Just don't move or touch anything or try to clean, okay? Let me take care of it." He turned to Romano, patting his shoulder and indicating that he should return to the table. "Why don't you go ahead and sit down and finish your breakfast, and I'll get you a pad so you can write down what you need while I take care of Mattie and get this cleaned up."

"Okay." Romano nodded, returning to his seat at the table and reaching for America's half-finished plate, since his own was empty. He needed some comforting after his terrible loss, and sweet buttery pancakes and maple syrup would serve that purpose nicely. America set aside the broom and dustpan for a moment and went to grab a first aid kit from a nearby cupboard and the magnetized notepad from its place on the fridge, placing the kit on the table so it'd be ready for use when he got the mess cleaned upa bit and could reach his brother, and offering the notepad to Romano so he could start making a list of the pasta he needed.

Returning to the pantry, he grabbed the broom and dustpan and started on the floor, sweeping the sticky shards into the dustpan around the boxes. "Does it hurt much, Mattie?" He asked, as his brother sniffled, holding his injured hand up gingerly and staring worriedly at his cut, wincing slightly now and then.

"A little," Canada smiled bravely, blinking back his tears, and America smiled back, proud of his baby brother's attempt to handle his injury manfully. "I-it stings a bit, but it's not too bad, eh?"

"Glad to hear it." America smiled warmly, assuring, "Just hold on a little but more and I'll have it cleaned up enough to get you out, okay? Just stand still and wait. It won't be long."

"O-okay." Canada smiled back, apparently encouraged by his brother's reassurances. Soon America had a path cleared to the back of the closet, and he led Canada out, sitting him down at the table and opening the first aid kit. Once Canada was seated America knelt to checked his cut, relieved to find that even though it was bleeding quite a bit it wasn't too deep. Thankfully the edge of the glass had been quite sharp, so the cut was clean, and not ragged.

"This isn't too bad. I bet it stings, though."

"A little." Canada admitted softly. America nodded, patting his knee.

"Don't you worry, it'll be alright once we get it bandaged." He reached into the first aid kit, pulling out a disinfectant. "I'm going to clean it now, okay? This is going to smart a bit."

"O-okay." Canada braced himself visibly, biting his lip. "I can take it, eh?"

"That's right." America encouraged, carefully cleaning the cut with a gauze pad covered in disinfectant, glancing up at Canada when he made a hissing noise as it made contact. After it was cleaned, he blew gently on the injury to soothe the sting. "Almost done." He assured, setting aside the disinfectant pad and reaching for an ointment which he gently spread over the cut, and reached for the box of bandaids to finish it off. "What kind of bandaid do you want, Mattie?" He asked, showing his brother the options. Canada pointed to one printed with happy panda bears.

"Th-that one, please." He requested, pouting a little for effect.

"It's pretty cute." America agreed, ripping it out of the package and wrapping it carefully around his brother's finger. "There we go, all done." He stood, gathering the first aid kit to put away. "You want something sweet to make you feel better, Mattie? Pancakes or ice cream or something?"

"Pancakes would be good." Canada nodded, rubbing residual tears from his eye and smiling up at his brother. "And ice cream, too, please."

"Okay." America chuckled, ruffling his brother's hair. "Pancakes and ice cream, coming right up. You want some ice cream too, 'Mano?" He offered, putting the first aid kit in the cupboard and pulling out a fresh plate for Canada's pancakes and ice cream. "Alongside your pancakes?"

"Yeah, sure." Romano nodded, almost finished with his list.

Soon America had his brother and best friend settled in with fresh pancakes and a couple scoops of ice cream each (less than he might normally have given them, but he was a little concerned about going over Romano's tolerance limit for the day. He made a mental note to double-check the manual as soon as possible. Where had he left it, again...?). "There you go." He said once they were set up. "Now, I'm going to go finish cleaning the closet. Let me know if you need anything else, okay?" They both mumbled their acquiescence around a mouthful of pancakes, and he grinned at the combined cuteness of his baby bro and best friend enjoying their food before returning to the pantry to attend to the mess.

Romano set aside the list he'd finished, and happened to glance up across the table just in time to catch the rather smug look Canada cast him over his pancakes. His eyes widened, then narrowed. "You _bastard!_ You _did_ do it on purpose!"

Canada's expression turned to alarmed innocence, and he shied back a little in his seat, waving his hands in defense. "N-no, it was an accident, r-really. I didn't _mean_ to ruin _all_ your pasta, South Italy."

"Everything okay out here?" America poked his head out of the pantry. "I heard shouting."

"Your brother ruined my pasta on purpose!" Romano accused, pointing indignantly at Canada, who shook his head in denial.

"No, it was an _accident!_" He dissembled shyly, looking anxious that his actions were misunderstood. "R-really!"

America glanced between them. "Now, Romano. I'm sure it was an accident. Mattie wouldn't do something like this on purpose, okay? He's really nice! He was trying to be helpful; it's just that he's a little clumsy sometimes. He didn't _mean_ to ruin your pasta." He stepped out of the closet, carrying the dustpan loaded with glass shards and syrup and dumping it into the trashbin, which he carried back to the pantry for easier access as he continued. "I know you're upset about the pasta, but we'll get you new pasta and it'll be alright. No harm, no foul, right? It was an accident."

Romano frowned and looked down at his pancakes, frustrated, and muttered unintelligibly under his breath. He glanced suspiciously at Canada once or twice, but the North American nation avoided his gaze and focused on his pancakes and ice cream.

Maybe it _was_ an accident, but Romano sure as hell didn't think so.

* * *

_AN: America gets to totally be in his element in this chapter. Solvin' problems and takin' care of his baby brother and best friend! The moments a hero lives for (especially when the problems are easily solved and no-one's actually hurt very badly, so there's no real downside). Mattie's taking full advantage of baby-brother-cuteness mode, I see._

_On the plus side for America, Romano's one of the few nations that probably wouldn't mind his...overprotective nature._

_New Fanart and AMVs linked in my profile: There's some cosplay of Romano in the Hero jacket by **BishieHunterReno,** and a new DA group called '**AskAmericaxRomano**', very cute, check it out, ask a question! Oh, and for those of you who are artists or just interested in that sort of thing, I added a link to Himaruya's color-reference palate for the characters in 'Official Stuff'— both the original blog post, and a translated version— because I've noticed some confusion among the fans as to the character's colorations. Studio Deen, while a lovely animation studio in many respects, has a tendency to dismiss creator's colorations/height profiles/characterizations and stick to a few basic color patterns (to speed up animation, mostly, but also for marketability, etc.). So if you're a stickler for creator's-vision-based characteristics like myself, the palate may be of some use to you. I reference it when I refer to character's hair/eye/skin color in my fics, and I imagine it would be useful if you're an artist, as well. _

_The US and Canada grow most of the durum wheat imported to Italy to make pasta, although America keeps a fair portion to make pasta out of, as well— and, interestingly, is a major importer of pasta from Italy. Italy's the world's largest exporter of pasta, accounting for on average 50 percent of the the world's pasta importation (America is the second highest importer of pasta from Italy, just after the entire EU. Canada is one of the lowest importers of pasta from Italy, or in general. Maybe Canadians don't eat as much pasta?) -based off of studies from_ Europa Agricultural Reports_ (which included Canada but excluded US and Australia__ for some reason), _Comtrade, Prairie Grains Magazine, The 2011 Import and Export Market for Unmilled Durum Wheat in Italy, by Professor Philip M. Parker, Ph.D., Chaired Professor of Management Science, INSEAD, _and...and I just remembered I'd planned to hold citing references 'til the end of the story, so I'll leave off there. But I guess if you're interested in studying durum production and imports/exports you have a starting point._

_I'm going to go see if caffeine will help clear my head. _


	46. Eskimo Affections

**Disclaimer:** **I neither own nor profit from Hetalia, except in the most intangible of ways.**

_Pay no attention to Shigure up there. Watching. S__ilently judging._

_Thanks for waiting, guys! Sorry it's been so long. This and the next few chapters will be mostly fluff and silly flirting, just to warn you. The boys are kind of on a 'just got together' high. Poor Romano doesn't quite know what to do with himself, and America just doesn't understand what's going on. _

* * *

"I got your pasta ordered,"America remarked as he re-entered the kitchen, returning from disposing of the ruined pasta. "Managed to get everything on the list." He added, sliding into his seat across from Romano. "Should be here sometime this afternoon. Early evening at the latest."

"That's good." Romano slumped in relief at the news. He'd have pasta in time for dinner, then. That was good. He wasn't sure he could do without it for too long.

America huffed a little laugh, catching sight of his brother, who had fallen asleep in the middle of eating his ice cream. Canada'd nodded off over the bowl with spoon in-hand, curl hanging dangerously close to the surface of the now-melted dessert.

"Mattie can fall asleep anywhere." He said with a sort of fond pride, reaching over to pry the spoon from slack fingers and relocating the bowl to save his brother's hair from becoming ice-cream coated (another time, if they'd been alone, he might have left it just to tease; but Mattie had been awfully cute and helpful with his pancakes and trying so hard with his maple syrup and being so brave about his cut, and he was feeling particularly affectionate and good-brother-y today). "He does it all the time. At the drop of a hat he'll just, bam, drop off in the middle of whatever he's doing. When it comes to sleeping, he's a pro."

"Heh, Feliciano does that whenever he cries too much." Romano commiserated, completely overlooking the fact that it was a trait they shared. "Once he's done crying he just goes right to sleep, the idiot."

"Kinda like you did earlier?" America grinned, placing the spoon in the bowl and settling back in his seat.

"What? No I didn't." Romano argued.

"Sure you did. In the truck, remember? When we were going shopping. You cried because you were homesick, and I was really worried 'cause I thought you were hurt, and so I hugged you until you were better, and then you fell asleep."

Romano's cheeks heated, and he scowled, crossing his arms. "I told you, being homesick had nothing to do with it! I, I thought I saw a moose!"

"Right, I forgot." America's eyes softened and warmed, remembering Romano's attempts to spare his feelings by inventing a moose story. He had the best friend in the _world_.

Suddenly it seems as though Romano was too far away over there on the other side of the table. America scooted his chair around the oval dining table so they were nearer together, and he was kitty-corner to Romano instead of across from him. There, much better. Happy now that his best friend was so much closer, America smiled warmly, leaning his chin in his hand. "Y'know 'Mano, you're awfully cute when you're sleeping."

Romano, unsettled by America's sudden proximity and _friendliness_ (and the clear fact that America wanted to be so near him)_,_ and unused to compliments, froze up and could only stare back at him in wide-eyed nervousness for several seconds, a deep flush slowly creeping across his face and neck. Then he blinked and looked away, scowling, and reached out a hand to push America's face away. "_Idiot._"

"Haha!" Undaunted, America laughed, turning his head right back and fixing Texas, which had been skewed a bit by Romano's action. "It's true! Even Curtis and Frankie said so."

"Who?" Romano looked back at him, brows furrowing, some of his flustered confusion fading in the wake of regular confusion.

"The cops who gave us candy?" America reminded him. "Officers Franklin and Curtis. They said you were the 'cutest fuckin' thing they'd ever seen'."

"O-oh." Romano nodded in understanding, blush persisting as he considered this information. That was a little weird, but...maybe that was how Americans were. That would make sense. It certainly seemed to be how America was— he said that sort of thing all the time. "W-well...Of course." He decided finally, after a flustered moment of staring at the table. "I, I _am_ pretty damn cute."

"Yep!" America squirmed a little closer in his seat, grinning excitedly. "I can't wait to introduce you to everyone at work. You're coming with me on Monday, right?"

"Nn, sure." Romano nodded, and sipped his wine to steady his nerves. He didn't mind meeting America's coworkers. If he was going to be America's best friend then meeting America's people, especially those closest to him, only made sense. He'd probably be getting to know some of them pretty well in the future.

"Great! Everyone's super-excited to meet you." America was almost vibrating in his seat with excitement at the prospect of introducing Romano to everyone at work— not only as the really cool, super-awesome _amazing_ guy he'd been talking about for weeks, and not just as his friend or business partner, even; but as his _Best Friend_. The person he'd be going through life with, through thick and thin, the good times and the bad. _Forever_. _So fucking awesome_.

He was so happy he felt a little dizzy.

But at the same time... talking about the incident in the truck had reminded him that he'd already let Romano down once. America sobered a little, thinking about how he'd begged Romano to visit, even though Romano was reluctant. He'd only thought about himself, and how much he wanted to see Romano and spend time with him and get to know him better. He hadn't considered how hard it would be for Romano to leave his home and everything he knew to come all this way to a strange country where everything was different for him, and when he'd had gotten here he'd left him alone and let him get homesick. Romano had forgiven him and even made up a story to protect his feelings, 'cause Romano was an awesome friend like that, and of course he'd do his best to prevent it from ever happening again; but that didn't change the fact that it'd happened in the _first_ place. He _did_ want to get to know Romano better and spend more time with him, and inviting him over was a good way to do it, but...if he had just _thought_ about it a little longer, about how Romano might feel and how difficult it might be for him to leave everything he knew behind to go to a strange country so far from his home, then he could have prepared things better. Made the transition easier for him, and looked out for him better. Maybe even...even waited longer to ask him over, as much as he really, really wanted to see him and spend time with him and really, was very glad to have him here now.

He frowned thoughtfully, resolving to do better. From now on he was going to be more careful. He'd have to consider Romano's needs and feelings, take them into consideration when he did things.

His gaze flickered to the thick manila file which still lay on the counter. He'd have to make sure to read the rest of the manual Germany had given him sometime soon. That might help. But first...he returned his attention to Romano, who was frowning at him with a slightly concerned expression. Aw. Romano was worried about him. He really did have the best best friend ever. His expression softened again, heart warming as he smiled.

Romano's brows furrowed further and he coloured slightly, opening his mouth to say something, ask why the other was being so weird, but America interrupted him, shifting sideways in his seat to face Romano directly.

"Romano," he said earnestly. "I don't think I've said this yet, but thank you for being my friend."

Romano closed his mouth for a moment, looking nonplussed, and then frowned again. "W-what? What are you talking about?"

"I mean it." America insisted, and reaching for Romano's hand which lay on the table, taking it in both of his. "I know you weren't super-excited about hanging out with me at first, so... thank you. For giving me the chance. I appreciate it."

"W-well..." Romano looked down at their hands, flustered yet again. "Y-you didn't give me much choice, bastard."

"Yeah, I guess not." America looked down and chuckled, absently rubbing the back of Romano's hand with his thumbs. "I wanted to get to know you, but I couldn't think of any other way. So when you came up to me after the meeting, I jumped on the chance." He looked back up, and smiled, almost a little shyly. "I can't say I regret it."

Romano said nothing, only stared back, eyes bright in his flushed face.

"Romano," America continued softly, seriously, leaning forward, pulling Romano's hand towards him. "Romano, I know I have a lot to learn about being a good best friend. You're very important to me- you're, you're the best thing that's ever happened to me. I, I want you to be happy with me. And, I know I, I..." He stopped and looked away, struggling for words. Eventually he exhaled, a little frustratedly. "I don't know what I'm trying to say."  
He straightened, frowning as he ruffled his hair with one hand, holding Romano's loosely in the other, and gnawed briefly at his lip as he thought. Finally he turned back to Romano. "I want to be good to you, Romano. And I know we're both new at this, and we don't quite know what we're doing yet. We're going to make mistakes. And that's okay. We can figure it out together, right? We just have to be honest with each other. I know that's not a problem either of us usually have," he grinned a little, "but at the same time, this is a new situation for both of us, and sometimes that can make you act differently than you might otherwise. And I know I kind of dragged you here to this whole new country where everything is strange to you, and that's gotta be a big adjustment, too, so, if you need anything, or want anything, or are feeling out of place or lonely or upset or _anything_ like that don't be afraid to let me know, okay? I'll do my best to take care of it." He took a deep breath.  
"And, thank you for coming, too. I, I know it was short notice, and I kind of sprung it on you without considering how hard it would be for you, and I'm sorry about that but I'm really, really glad you came." He shifted Romano's hand in his, lacing their fingers together, "I love having you here, Romano. I love spending time with you, and getting to know you."

He paused in thought, and broke into a smile. "And I guess now that we're best friends, we'll have plenty of time to get to know each other." He said, squeezing Romano's hand, then continued, "So I guess what I'm _trying_ to say is thank you, and if you need anything, or want anything, or something's bothering you, don't feel shy about telling me how you feel. Okay? And if I'm not listening you can kick me or something." He added, grinning. "And I promise I'll be straight with you, too. Deal?"

"Deal, bastard." Romano nodded.

America's smile widened. "Great." He leaned on the table next to Romano, settling his chin back in his hand. "So, what—"

THUNK.

The sound of Canada's head hitting the table interrupted him. They looked over to see America's brother sprawled facedown on the table in what looked like an intensely uncomfortable position. Two sets of eyebrows rose.

"That can _not_ be comfortable." America remarked.

"Nn." Romano agreed, wincing. His neck felt sore just looking at the angle Canada's was twisted in.

"I'd better move him to the couch." America sighed, standing and slowly releasing Romano's hand. "I'll be right back."

"Nn, sure." Romano nodded in understanding, letting his hand slip from America's, the extra warmth from America's hands lingering pleasantly on his.

America scooped Canada up, easily lifting the young nation's limp form. He chuckled, shifting him in his arms so his head rested more comfortably against his shoulder. "I don't know how he does it." He looked back at up at Romano. "This won't take long." He promised. "I'll just...get him settled on the couch and be right back."

"Nn." Romano agreed.

"It won't take long."

"You already said that, bastard." Romano said levelly.

"Hah, yeah, I guess I did." America acknowledged, blushing a little. He backed up a few steps, still looking at Romano. "I'll just..." he gestured to the doorway behind him with a tilt of the head. "I'll, I'll be right back."

"Yeah." Romano agreed. America smiled, and took another slow step backwards, before finally turning and exiting the kitchen.

Once he was gone, Romano looked down, twisting his fingers in his lap, a smile tugging at his lips. After a moment he took a deep breath and looked around, not really sure what he was looking for, if anything, really. Evidence of the events of the last few hours were everywhere, in drops of pancake batter on the counter next to the griddle, measuring cups and spoons next to the sink,

the dirty plates sitting on the table, the smell of maple syrup strong in the air (which was a nice smell, even if he now partially associated it with losing his pasta).

He realised that he'd forgotten to take off the apron he'd worn to make pancakes.

Romano rose, automatically untying it and pulling it over his head, tossing the flour-and-batter-spattered garment over the back of one of the chairs, and went to the 'fridge, deciding he felt like having a glass of wine. He hummed a bit as he went, retrieving the bottle from the fridge and searching the cupboards for a glass, which he found easily. He took both back to the table, sitting down and opening the bottle, tapping his feet and the fingers of his free hand in time with the beat of the tune he was humming as he filled his glass and recapped the bottle. He set it aside with a flourish, lifting the glass with an almost-smile, feeling unaccustomedly happy, for some reason.

"Look who I found sittin' all lonesome in the hall." America re-entered the kitchen (again), holding a familiar stuffed toy aloft. "Forgot to bring him up with me when I went to take a shower."

"Oh," Romano accepted the wolf as America plopped back down into the seat next to him, setting it next to the bottle. "That's fine. I'll take him up to my room later."

"What, that's it?" America glanced between him and the wolf. "He was all alone and by himself out there!" He reached out and took the wolf, hopping it across the table towards Romano. "The poor little guy needs some love!"

Romano regarded the both of them a little warily, not entirely sure if America was serious or just messing with him. "It's just a toy, bastard."

"How can you say that about Jii-chan?" America gasped, clutching the toy to his chest. "Toys need love too! It's okay, Jii-chan, he didn't mean it." He soothed, petting the toy comfortingly. "Oh? What's that?" He held the wolf up to his ear and cocked his head, pretending to listen to the toy talk. "Uhuh. Okay." He held the wolf out to Romano. "He wants you to give him Eskimo kisses."

Flustered and off-balanced by America's proximity and undivided attention, as well as the bizarreness of this conversation, Romano looked at Jii-chan, and back up at America, frowning. "What the hell is 'Eskimo kisses'?"

"Oh, I guess you wouldn't know." America realised, and lowered the toy. "It's like this," he said, and before Romano could react, he hooked his foot around the leg of Romano's chair and pulled it closer, and leaned forward, cupping his face and rubbing the tip of his nose gently across Romano's. Romano's breath caught in his throat, his mind blanking as America nuzzled his nose, lashes lowered over blue eyes and a soft smile on his lips, his hand warm, almost hot, on Romano's cheek.  
"That's an 'Eskimo Kiss'." America explained as he pulled back and lowered his hand, smiling. "It's something my people do sometimes to express affection to close friends and family."  
"O-oh." Was all Romano could say.  
"And since we're best friends, we can do it, too." America said, and leaned down to brush their noses together again. He really liked doing this with Romano. He resolved to do it with him more often. Make a habit of it. It could be their best friend thing! "It's nice, right? Do you have anything like that in Italy? Special stuff you only do with best friends?"  
Romano blinked, trying to think past the flustered, speechless haze that seemed to be his ground state since entering America. Did they? He couldn't think of anything offhand. It was hard to remember. "I... don't know." He said finally. "I don't think so."  
"No?" America asked. He set Jii-chan on the table, saying, "That's okay. I'm sure we'll make lots of best friend traditions together! Starting with this one," he leaned in again to nuzzle their noses together briefly and affectionately, pulling back with a grin. "I like Eskimo kissing with you!"

Romano opened his eyes, which had slid shut automatically the third time America had leaned in to nuzzle him, and licked his lips. His head spun, and his heart was beating faster than a hummingbird's wings in his chest. His eyes slid to the side for a moment, and back again, although he couldn't think. He set his wineglass down, swallowing hard. "...This...you do this with your friends?" He asked when he could finally speak, confusion colouring his tone as well as furrowing his brows.

"Well," America tilted his head slightly, his own eyes sliding to the side in thought. "Only the best ones." His lips quirked up again and his eyes glowed a little as he returned his gaze to Romano. "So really, only you."

"Okay." Romano nodded, and his eyes flickered, and he swallowed, unconsciously leaning a little closer to America. "You're not allowed to have any other best friends, bastard." He said lowly, decisively. "Only me."

"That's fine." America agreed softly, reaching up to brush Romano's hair off his forehead. He slid his fingers through smooth, dark hair until he was cradling the base of Romano's skull, and he leaned forward to press their foreheads together, eyes and smile glowing fondly. "You're the only one I need."

"I'd better be, idiot." Romano closed his eyes, reaching up to cup the back of America's head as well, stroking his neck and hair with his thumb. "I don't want to share you."

"Okay." America's smile widened uncontrollably, and he brushed his nose across Romano's again, eyes closing when his best friend nuzzled back. "Exclusive best friends works for me." He murmured, curling his fingers through Romano's hair. "I don't want to share you, either."

Romano took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly.

"You can give Eskimo kisses to Jii-chan, though." America added after a moment, and opened his eyes, smile twitching into a grin. Romano snorted, pushing him away, a grin tugging at his lips, too.

"_Idiot."_ He turned back to his glass, sipping his wine to hide his smile. "I'm not kissing a toy."

"Aw, haha," America laughed, settling his elbows on the table and picking Jii-chan up, wiggling him at Romano. "But he loves you!"

"Che." Romano scoffed, snatching the toy from his ridiculous best friend, torn between denying the toy's declared emotional state and agreeing, but his natural pride won out. "Of course he does, I'm as lovable as they come." He asserted, setting Jii-chan down on the other side of the wine bottle, where America couldn't try and make him kiss it without potentially knocking the bottle over. As an afterthought, he patted the stuffed toy's head.

"It was love at first sight." Agreed America, grinning. "Whatcha drinkin'?" He asked, switching the topic and settling his chin in his hand.

Romano quirked an eyebrow at him and grasped the neck of the bottle. "Wine." He said dryly, rocking it back and forth on its base in a gesture that said 'What the hell does it _look_ like, bastard?'

"Well I can see that." America said, undaunted. "I was just wondering if it was from my wine cellar."

"Why would it be from your wine cellar? I haven't even seen it yet, bastard. This is the stuff I brought with me."

"Oh." America paused for a beat. "Want to see my wine cellar?"

* * *

_AN: __Just a little bonding time for our boys. _

_Actually they have some pretty cute gestures of affection in South Italy which Romano can't remember now because his brain is shorting out from America-ness but I'm sure he'll demonstrate sometime in the future when he recovers and becomes more accustomed to the onslaught of attention/affection. _

_Oh...I just realised some of my non-US readers might actually have No Idea what Eskimo Kisses are. To the best of my knowledge it's pretty much exclusively a US thing. Basically it's as demonstrated above, a chaste but relatively intimate gesture of affection between close family (usually elders/children), owners and pets, and lovers, consisting of nuzzling noses together. (Usually not between best friends unless they are **especially** close, but I think we all realise by this point that America is a bit... confused as to the nature of his feelings/relationship with Romano. Not to say that they aren't best friends, because they are, just... well, let me put it this way: Amerca and Romano may be exclusively **each other's** best friends, but they're not **exclusively** best friends.) _

_I did ridiculous amounts of research for the next chapter, which I hope won't take nearly as long to update. My schedule's full, but I'll do my best. _

_To those of you who alerted me to the FFnet purge; thank you! I really appreciate it. Don't worry, I have backups of all my files, although I confess I haven't decided where to post them if I am deleted. I have some stories posted on dA, and I've been reviewing other sites. It's been suggested I just create a website, which I'll consider, but really I like the format and design of FFnet best._


	47. A Whale of a Tale and anAmerican Sweater

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

_I warned you.  
_

* * *

"I should warn you," America admits as he leads Romano down the stairs, holding his hand so he won't trip or anything and because he _can_ because they're best friends, "I don't come down here much. I only really come down here to put stuff away."

"Hm." Romano acknowledges, focusing on the stairs beneath his feet so he doesn't trip or spill the glass of wine he brought with him from the kitchen and is holding in his free hand. He's not really surprised by America's admission. He's not expecting much, anyway, considering that America's already made it clear that he doesn't care much about wine; but he can always bring some good wines from his own cellar later so he'll have something to drink when he comes here in the future. It'll be good to know what he has to work with, cellar-wise. If it's suitable for storing wine, then he can bring a few crates next time he comes. If it's not, then he'll just have America put a 'fridge in his room, or something, and bring a few bottles each time he comes.

Stopping before a heavy-looking wooden steel-barred door, America releases Romano's hand to grab the handle and shoulder it open, leaning in to flick the switch and standing back again so Romano has room to go through first. "Here we go."

Glancing at him, Romano steps through. It's cool down here, which is good; the air is neither too dry nor too moist, which is promising. The cellar's dark compared to the corridor they're standing in, and his eyes take a few moments to adjust to the dim lighting; but when they do, they widen considerably at what they see. "_Che cavolo!" _He murmurs under his breath, brows climbing in surprise.

It's not the cellar itself that's caught him off-guard. Romano knows a lot about wine cellars, he's been in more than he can count; and in many ways this is like many others— old brick walls and floors, exposed beams overhead, dim lighting that wouldn't 'disturb' the wine sitting in the racks lining the walls and floor, cool temperature, and the occasional crate or barrel here and there. It's much larger than the usual private wine cellar, but even that doesn't entirely surprise him, considering the size of the rest of America's house. What _does_ surprise him, and what occupies the majority of his attention at this moment is how _much_ wine and how _many _racks there were. Not only were there racks lining the walls, but there were rows and rows of racks arranged across the floor of the room as well, almost like bookshelves. It's like a library, but with wine instead of books. There have to be hundreds, if not thousands, of bottles in here.

He turns to America, frowning. "I thought you said you don't drink, bastard!"

"I don't. I mean, I did when I was younger, but not since the laws changed. And never really much wine, even back then. Mostly hard liquor, whiskey and bourbon and gin 'n' stuff. A lot of hard cider when I was younger. Cocktails later. And England used to give me beer and rum when I was little. But I haven't in a long while."

"If you don't drink it, then what the hell is," Romano waves his hand incredulously, gesturing to the room at large, "all _this?"_

"Oh, you know," America says loftily, the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth belying his tone. "Just wine, and stuff."

Romano narrows his eyes, pursing his lips to keep them from curling up in response. "Don't get cute with me, idiot," he warns, swatting America's chest with the back of his hand, which just causes America's grin to break out in earnest, "There's got to be _hundreds_ of damn bottles in there." He flails his hand incredulously at the contents of the cellar, trying to convey how crazy all this excess really is, considering the circumstances. "This is practically a wine _warehouse_. You could open a store with everything you've got down here. I thought you said you just kept it for guests and shit."

"Yeah, pretty much." America affirms. "I mean, _I_ don't drink it. I just keep it around for anyone else who might want to. It didn't used to be this big," he adds, leaning in to point at several points on the walls and ceiling, and looking closer Romano can see breaks in the brickwork that indicate where walls used to be built in, "This actually used to be three rooms. But I kept running out of space, so I kept having to knock out the walls to expand the cellar so I'd have room to for it all."

"You're _kidding_." Romano turns back to the racks lining the floor. "You're fucking _kidding_ me, bastard. You buy all this just in case someone _might _want to drink it?"

"Oh _hell_ no." America snorts. "I don't _buy_ it. At least, not the wine. I just get _given_ a lot. And since I don't drink it, well..." he gestures to the cellar. "Anything I get goes right down here."

"You get _given_ it." Romano repeats flatly, still staring at the rows and rows of bottles.

"Yeah, you know," America shrugs indifferently, "diplomatic functions and Christmas presents and stuff. And the vineyards from my place send me stuff, and France brings by a crate or two every once in a while. Says he's 'investing in my future'. It adds up. Not all of it is wine, though," he adds, waving towards the far end of the cellar. "Down there is spirits and stuff. Mostly Kentucky bourbon and whiskey and shit. I buy most of that," he explains, grinning mischievously as he looks back to Romano, "for when I'm old enough to drink again. That's _me_ investing in my future."

Romano makes a noise of disbelief, shaking his head. "You don't do anything halfway, do you?"

"Nope." America grins unrepentantly. "Not if I can help it."

Romano snorts, and hides his smile by taking a sip from the glass he still holds.

"So," America prompts, shoving his hands in his pockets and inclining his head towards the cellar, watching Romano expectantly for his opinion. "What do you think?"

Romano lets his gaze slowly roam the room, and takes another sip of wine to buy some time. "Well, it's big." He allows, and lifts a shoulder, heading in. "Let's see if you've got anything worth drinking in here."

He wanders through the racks, browsing the collection with an expert eye. The lighting could be better; the only illumination comes from three or four ancient, dim bulbs hanging from the ceiling along the length of the cellar. It's just enough light to see by, but not to see well. Thankfully, America had the foresight to build the shelves in such a way that the bottles rest at a gentle incline in their cradles, allowing anyone who wants to see the labels fairly clearly, without needing to pull them out, though he does occasionally easing an interesting-looking bottle from its place for a closer look. There are quite a few he's looking forward to opening. The selection's predominantly Italian (which pleases him immensely), French and American in almost equal amounts, with occasional bottles from other countries (Argentina, Portugal, Spain, Australia, and even one from New Zealand) scattered randomly throughout. There's even a few stretches of Canadian wine (he passes these carefully, watching them suspiciously out of the corner of his eye).

America follows along, talking, telling him about the bottles as they go; and while it's clear that he doesn't know anything about the wine _itself_, Romano's increasingly intrigued to realise that America seems to remember clearly where each bottle came from, who gave them to him and when, and under what circumstances he received them. And he actually _cares_.

"All of these are from an old friend in Kentucky," America says, indicating a four-foot section of rack filled with bottles which, though varying somewhat in shape, all sport the same name and a simple leaf emblem on the label. "I served with him in the Navy. We used to work on planes together. Introduced him to his wife, too. She was an EOD tech I used to hang out with a lot." He grins a little in memory, sliding his thumb along the shelving, and laughs to himself. "I was her 'maid of honor' at their wedding. Later he left the Navy to worked for a private company, and she got shipped overseas, and, well, we lost touch for a while. Then one day about twelve years after we'd last talked he calls me out of the blue, going 'Hey Al, you'll never guess what I just did,'" he grins, glancing at Romano. "Turned out he'd quit his job and bought this old vineyard in Kentucky on a whim. Ratty old place, half-falling down, and he said he wanted me to come help him fix it up. Then I get there and it turns out the _real_ reason he wanted me there was because he hadn't told Cammy— his wife— what he'd done and wanted me to be there to help talk her down when he broke the news. Haha, it was a good thing he did, too. She was _pissed_. But then she fell in love with the place and quit the Navy to help get things running, and eighteen years later they won some wine competition and got mentioned in a couple wine magazines, and he sent me five crates to celebrate. Along with a note that said, 'I know you don't drink it but take it anyway, jackass.'" He smiles a little, shoving his hands into his pockets. "He died a while back of heart failure. Cammy runs the place now. She still sends me a bottle and a box of cookies every Christmas." He stares at the racks for a second, not really seeing them. Romano watches him silently, letting him reminisce. Then America shivers a little, pulling his shoulders in. "Brr. Man, I forgot how chilly it is down here." He says, brows furrowing in a frown of concern as he turns to his friend. "You warm enough, 'Mano?"

"It is a little chilly," Romano admits, realising it's true. They've been down here a while, and the cool temperature in the cellar, while good for storing wine, is not so great for storing Mediterraneans. He purses his lips, plucking at the light cotton of his sleeves. "I should have worn a sweater, dammit."

America breaks into a wide grin. "I'll be your sweater!" He announces, wrapping himself around Romano, settling his chin on the Italian's shoulder. "There, see? I'll keep you warm."

"This is ridiculous." Romano says, amused even as he melts into the comfortable warmth around him.

"But warm." America points out, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

Romano fights a smile of his own. "How are we supposed to move, bastard?" He points out, letting his head fall back against America's shoulder, because they're best friends and he _can_ and it feels really, really nice. "We can't walk like this."

"Sure we can," America contradicts, taking a step forward, which forces Romano to step forward, too. "See?" America says, matching Romano's steps as they walk. It's a little awkward at first, and he almost steps on Romano's heel once, but after a few steps they're moving smoothly, if slowly, together.

"This is ridiculous." Romano repeats, unable to keep the grin from his face.

"But warm." America grins, squeezing him a little.

"Yeah, it's warm." Romano admits, giving in. He looks down at his now-empty glass, lifting it as far as he can with America's arms wrapped around his own, and looks around for somewhere to put it down. Noticing this, America takes it from him, wedging it on a shelf. As he returns his arm to its place around Romano, he takes the Italian's hands in each of his, lacing their fingers together.

"There." He says with satisfaction. "Now your hands will be warm, too."

"Idiot." Romano says fondly, squeezing America's hand.

"Okay, this is pretty awesome." America decides. "Forget sweaters. From now on, whenever you need to get warm you can just call me."

"Oh?" Romano challenges, turning his head to look up at him and quirking a brow. "And you'll fly all the way to Italy to warm me up, huh bastard?"

"Count on it." America grins, eyes sparkling. "Can't leave my best friend out in the cold, can I?"

"I think I'd prefer the sweater." Romano teases, settling his head back against America's shoulder. "But if this is the best you can do, I guess I'll just have to settle."

"So mean." America laughs. "Just for that, I should bite you." He adds, playfully nuzzling the side of Romano's head

Romano's breath hitches, and he turns his head to stare up at America. "You wouldn't dare." He challenges, heart rate quickening.

"Oh wouldn't I." America grins predatorially. Romano's eyes widen, and he starts to wriggle.

"Y-you wouldn't _dare— _!" Romano cuts off with a little strangled yelp, shuddering, as America's teeth close gently on his neck. Pulling a hand free and slapping it over the blond's face, he squirms, turning around in America's hold to face him.

"You _bit_ me!" He accuses, rubbing the tingling spot on his his neck.

"Yep." America agrees muffledly, pulling his face from Romano's hand and grinning completely unrepentantly as he settles his arms low around Romano's waist. "And you were _delicious_." His eyes flicker down to Romano's neck and back up to his face, hooding and sharpening, his arms tightening reflexively around Romano's waist, and Romano tenses, wariness and anticipation rising at America's expression, knowing what's coming next.

"Oh, no you don't." He warns, slapping his hand over America's face again. The corners of his lips twitch as America grins at him through his fingers, but he tries to keep his voice stern. "No biting."

Chuckling, America tilts his head to nuzzle his palm, grazing his teeth across the skin, and Romano jerks his hand away, stomach fluttering madly.

"Oi!" He says, cradling his hand close and rubbing the tingling sensation out of his palm with his thumb as he scolds, "what did I just tell you?"

America raises his brows innocently. "To bite you lots 'cause you're so delicious?"

Romano gives him a dry look. "Oh yes," he says sarcastically. "That's _exactly_— h-hey! Ah," he protests, squirming as America moves in for another taste, trying desperately not to laugh. Wriggling out of America's hold, he dances backwards, panting and holding out his hands in front of him. "Oi," he says warningly, backing slowly away, but he isn't able to fight down his smile, and America grins, and when Romano yelps and turns to run, his best friend is hot on his heels.

Alternately cursing and laughing as he runs, Romano darts around racks, adrenaline pumping as he races down aisles of wine and shelves of brick and wood as he tries to stay ahead, just out of America's reach (but not too far ahead, because he doesn't want to actually lose him. Not that he wants to _caught, _or anything, although maybe he wouldn't mind too much if he was).

"You're too slow, bastard!" Romano taunts, glancing back over his shoulder.

"Oh yeah?" America grins, lunging forward, and Romano yelps, narrowly missing colliding with a rack when he jumps sideways to avoid his grasp.

"Haha, missed me!" He gloats, turning around and running backwards to smirk at his best friend. Which isn't the best plan, as it turns out, because he's unable to see the edge of a burlap stack laying across his path, and it catches on his heel, tripping him up. He flails, falling backwards, and America, too close behind to stop in time, follows after, tumbling on top of him. They hit the floor with a dual _oomph_, and lay there, panting, for a few moments.

"You okay?" America pants, after a second, his head resting on Romano's shoulder.

"Yeah." Romano answers, blinking at the ceiling. He's not hurt— they didn't fall hard, luckily. But he _is_ out of breath from running, and it's hard to catch his breath when America's lying on top of him. "Get off," he demands, pushing on America's shoulder. "You're smooshing me."

America chuckles, and complies, rolling off to flop on the floor next to him. Now that he can breathe, Romano takes a deep breath, and exhales, rolling over and climbing onto America.

"The floor is cold." He complains, sprawling on top of his best friend. "Warm me up, bastard."

"Mm," America agrees readily, wrapping his arms around him, shifting a bit so Romano can settle on him more comfortably. "Better?"

"Mm." Romano confirms, laying his head on America's chest. They lay there for a few minutes, waiting for their heart rates to slow down and their breathing to even out.

"Hey, America." Romano says, after a while.

"Hm?"

"Why did you even build a wine cellar if you don't drink wine?" Romano asks, and purses his lips in a frown. "And don't say 'for guests'." He adds. "That doesn't make any sense. If all you wanted was wine for guests you could just pick up a bottle and put it in your fridge, or the pantry or something; not build a whole cellar. And this cellar's way too big, and there's too much wine here for it to be for that."

"...Ha, I guess it is." America concedes, after a moment of silence. "I hadn't really thought of that. I guess I've just thought of it as 'for guests' for a long time. You're right though," he muses, almost distantly. "It wasn't that way at first." He laces his fingers together, settling his arms comfortably around the small of Romano's back. "I mean, it was for guests, yeah, and for me, but...really, it was for Tom."

Romano shifts, frowning, and lifts his head to see America's face. "'Tom'?" He repeats, wondering exactly who this guy is and why America cared about him so much that he built a whole wine cellar for him when he (America) wasn't even interested in wine.

"Thomas Jefferson," America clarifies, lips curling up fondly. "One of the 'United States of America's" (he says the name with a definite shade of pride) "'Founding Fathers'. Wrote my Declaration of Independence. He was one of my first bosses. He's a national hero. " He smiles a little shyly in reminiscence. "One of my heroes, too. In a lot of ways, he helped make me who I am today."

"Oh." Romano says, and relaxes a little. One of America's bosses, huh? "And he made you build a wine cellar?"

"Haha, no." America laughs, shaking his head slightly. "He didn't _make_ me. He just...wine was really important to him, you know? He was really interested in it, and wanted me to learn to appreciate it, too. And I really looked up to him, so when I was helping him build _his_ wine cellar and he's all excited about it, and is all, 'Alfred, have you given any consideration to establishing a wine cellar of your own? I think it would be wise for you to do so,' and there was no way in hell I was going to say no. Especially when he offered to design it for me and was so excited about the idea and everything. " He grins, admitting easily, "Anything he suggested or thought was a good idea I'd do, though. I really respected him a lot. He was really, really smart. I mean, _smart_. He knew _everything_. He taught himself _Italian_ with an Italian-English dictionary and two history books written in Italian, and books by what's his name, Machiavelli. He really liked your place." He looks at Romano, nudging the Italian's spine with his thumb. "He talked about Italy a lot. He really admired your architecture, and music, and agriculture, and food and, man. I don't think there was anything he _didn't_ like about Italy. And then he toured Italy all by himself so he could learn about how you made wine, and grew crops, and ...all kinds of stuff. He said we had a lot to learn from you. And he loved your wine. Used to import it all the time..." he trails off nostalgically, and laughs a little. "He tried to teach me about it, but I dunno. Most of it went over my head, I guess." He shrugs, grinning self deprecatingly. "So, wine cellar." He waves his hand at the room. "He designed it for me, and we built it together, and here it is. It's a lot like his. He designed it bigger, because he said since I lived longer...and then I expanded it as I got more wine over the years. Every bottle I've ever gotten is down here." He shifts, nodding towards the side of the room where they came in. "And there's a dumbwaiter somewhere back there that goes to the big dining room, just like his did. For bringing wine up when you're eating. I've never used it, though." He shrugs a shoulder. "Never used the dining room, either. Too big for one person, you know?"

Romano nods, because he does know. He remembers the dining room America's talking about, and it's clearly meant for a large number of people. Then he frowns, because suddenly he's seeing America sitting at the end of that long table in his mind's eye, eating his dinner all alone in that large room, cutlery echoing on porcelain with every bite, and the image is such a lonely one that he can't help feeling a rush of protectiveness for his best friend.

"So I usually just eat on the couch or in the kitchen." America continues, oblivious to his friend's thoughts. "Usually on the couch, so I can watch TV. The kitchen is just so quiet, you know? Unless Mattie's here, and— er, Romano?" America blinks in surprise, thrown a little as Romano shifts, scooting up his torso and sliding a hand behind his head and leaning close, but when Romano's nose nuzzles his in an Eskimo kiss he relaxes, eyes half closing as he nuzzles back.

"Idiot." Romano says afterward, resting his forehead against America's and closing his eyes. "You know, wine doesn't last forever."

"It doesn't?" America asks, surprised. "I thought it was supposed to age. You know, the longer you let it sit, the better it gets?"

"Age, yeah. But not sit forever," Romano corrects, gently squeezing the back of America's neck. "It has a lifespan, you know? Some wines last longer than others, sure, but most are made for drinking with a couple years or so. Ten, maybe thirty years at most if it's really good and made for aging. Then they turn to vinegar, and then they turn to trash. You gotta drink 'em while they're good."

America's brows furrow in thought. "But—"

"No 'buts'." Romano interrupts, squeezing again, and sits up, setting his hands on his hips. "I know what I'm talking about, bastard. There's exceptions yeah, but they're rare, okay? Normally, you gotta drink it within a few years."

America considers this information, and nods, accepting Romano's authority on the matter. "Okay." He shifts a little, settling his hands on Romano's jean-clad thighs, perfectly content to lay on the cold cellar floor with his best friend sitting on his chest. Romano, satisfied that America's accepted his word, relaxes, and starts to fiddle idly with the front of America's shirt. America watches, neither really feeling the need to talk for the moment.

But it's cold in the cellar, and not being pressed against America's body Romano's lost the benefit of his American 'sweater's warmth, so after a few minutes he shivers, releasing America's shirt and pursing his lips discontentedly. "It's cold."

"It is," America agrees, because he's been laying on the brick floor and his back is freezing. "Let's go upstairs and get warm."

"Okay," Romano agrees, and gets to his feet, followed by America, who takes his hand again. They both look towards the door when they hear a faint buzzing sound coming from upstairs.

"I bet that's your pasta," America says, leading the way out. "C'mon, let's go get it."

* * *

It is the pasta, as it turns out, and once it's all safely put away in the pantry and Romano's closet (just in case Canada had another pantry 'accident' when he wasn't looking), Romano feels much more secure. If he has pasta, everything is alright.  
Until he turns around to find a whale breathing down his neck. "Wha!" He screams, startling backwards.  
"Bwooo~," says the whale in a friendly fashion, flapping its fins. "Bwooo~."  
"Oh, there you are." America greets companionably, coming up behind Romano and slinging an arm around his shoulders. "I was wondering where you'd got to. I wanted you to meet Romano. Romano," he says, turning to his best friend, "this is the whale friend I was talking about earlier. And this," he says, glowing proudly as he places his hands on Romano's shoulders, moving him towards the whale in presentation (Romano's heels scraping against the ground as he tries to resist provide no difficulty as he slides forward). "Is Romano South Italy. He's my Best Friend."  
"BwoooOOo." Says the whale enthusiastically, blowing a spout of water from its blowhole with a sound like a champagne cork popping.  
"Yep." America beams, stepping forward to throw his arm over Romano's shoulders again. "Isn't he?"  
Romano just stares at the whale, because it's a whale in the kitchen, and how did it even get in here and something's strangely familiar about it but the fact that it's a whale in the kitchen is kind of blowing his mind.  
America nudges him gently, prompting, "Aren't you going to say hello?"  
He stares up at America, and then back at the whale. It winks an eye, and flaps its fins? Flippers? Again. It doesn't seem about to eat him, so he offers tentatively, "Um. Hello," and fidgets, slightly.  
"Bwoowooo~." The whale answers softly, seemingly sympathetic to the fact that he's nervous. He blushes, embarrassed that he's a little scared when no-one else in the room seems to think this is at all strange (granted, the other two occupants in the room are America and a freaking whale in the kitchen, so; but at the same time, the whale seems to be being so nice about it that he feels a little guilty for being so freaked out).  
"OooOoo~" the whale says conversationally. "OoOObwooo~."  
"Aw, really?" America says disappointedly. "I was hoping you could hang out with Romano and me."  
"Bwooo~." The whale explains.  
"Are you sure you can't stay?" America presses.  
"Bwooo~." The whale repeats, and America's shoulder's sag a bit.  
"Ok." He says. "Another time. I'm glad you guys got to meet, anyway."  
"Ooo, owoo~," the whale agrees, and asks, "Bwooo?"  
"Oh, sure. There's some above the toaster, I'll grab it for you." America offers, pulling his arm from Romano's shoulders and striding across the kitchen to open a cupboard and rummage around. Romano tenses a bit at the loss, feeling a little unsafe as he's left stares warily at the whale.  
"Do you want one box, or two?" America calls back.  
"Bwoo."  
"Okay." America pulls two yellow boxes from the cupboard, coming back to hand them to the whale. "Here you go. Have fun!"  
"WooOoo~." The whale thanks him and turns, waving a fin and blinking at Romano in friendly farewell as it moves to go. Suddenly Romano feels kind of guilty, 'cause he's pretty sure the whale's only leaving because it knows he's uncomfortable and wants to make things easier, and it strikes him that he's been kind of rude to the whale, who's been very nice about a strange Italian showing up in his kitchen, and who's a friend of America's and so they'll obviously be seeing each other a lot, and decides he'd like their acquaintance to start out on a better foot.  
"H-hey!" He stammers, heart beating rapidly as he takes a step forward. The whale pauses, looking back at him, and Romano blushes, embarrassed, but pushes on, determined to make up for his rudeness. "It, it was nice to m-meet you."  
The whale winks at him happily, blowing a little air out of its blowhole, and leaves. Once it's gone, Romano releases the breath he's unconsciously been holding, and turns around to see America beaming at him.  
"W-what?" He challenges, feeling embarrassed.  
"I'm glad you two get along so well." America says, still beaming.  
"W-whatever." Romano crosses his arms and looks away, pursing his lips defensively.  
"No, really." America says, stepping closer and taking his wrist, gently uncrossing his arms to hold his hands. "Not many people get along so well with my whale. So I'm really happy you do."  
"Y-yeah?" Romano feels a little better hearing that.

"Yeah." America affirms, squeezing his hands, and grins. "You wanna watch some TV? It's been a busy morning. I don't know about you, but I could use some downtime. Just chillin' out, you and me."  
"Yeah." Romano nods, welcoming the idea of doing nothing but sitting around and watching TV for a while. It has been a busy morning, and just some time relaxing with America without any whales or Mooses or Canadas looming out him out of nowhere would be nice. "That sounds good. Let's do that."  
"Great." America smiles, releasing his hands. "I'll make us some popcorn."

* * *

_AN: I apologize for the tenses, and the long wait. _

_There's no symbolism in here. They're just hanging out and talking, as people do.  
_

_Thomas Jefferson! I love that guy. I worked hard not to give you guys 'The History of Thomas Jefferson and Wine, and His Interest in Italy' but man, I couldn't resist at least putting **something** in. But honestly? This is not the last time wine, or this wine cellar, or wine cellars in general will feature in this story.  
_

_The whale! Also will be back. Kind of showed up unawares there, I wasn't expecting that (and neither was Romano), but I guess whales need snacks too, and waiting around in the wings for your cue can be hungry work.  
_

_You have not lived until you've been somebody's sweater. Or perhaps the other way around, if fancy takes you that way.  
_


	48. Burden of Proof

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.**

* * *

"Mattie. Hey, Mattie." America leaned over the back of the couch and gently nudged his sleeping brother's shoulder, trying to rouse him from the couch so he and Romano could sit down. "C'mon, it's reveille. Time to wake up."

Canada stirred and sighed, eyes cracking open to fix unfocusedly on his brother. "Hm?" He asked blearily.

"'Mano and me are going to watch some tv." America said, leaning on his elbows on the back of the couch. "Why don't you go sleep in one of the bedrooms."

Canada looked to where Romano stood next to his brother, holding a large bowl of popcorn and wearing a frown, and back to America. "How long was I asleep?"

"Not long," America answered. "Couple hours, maybe? Come on," he reached down to rest his fingers on his brother's shoulder, urging him up. Canada sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Why don't you go sleep in one of the bedrooms, you'll be more comfortable." America suggested.

"No," Canada shook his head, stifling a yawn, and gathered up the blanket America'd covered him with, "No, I'll stay up and watch tv with you guys." He scooted over to make room for them on the couch, and pulled the blanket into his lap.

"Okay, cool." America agreed easily, and stepped over the back of the couch to flop down in the center. He tilted his head to looked back over his shoulder to where Romano still stood. "C'mon, 'Mano, get comfortable." He patted the cushion next to him in invitation. Romano walked around the other end, settling down next to America, who lifted the bowl of popcorn from his hands and set it on the coffeetable in front of them, smiling at him as he did so.

"What have you guys been up to?" Canada asked, brushing his hair out of his face, running his fingers through the sleep-tangled strands to straighten them (having France's silky hair was nice, but it had its downsides. That it tangled easily was one of them.)

"I was showing Romano the wine cellar," America said, twisting and turning to dig around in the cushions for the remote. "He says it's no good, though."

"No I didn't, bastard." Romano contradicted, "I didn't say it's no good, I said most of it's too old to drink. The cellar itself isn't bad." He reached for the popcorn as he continued. "And you've even got some decent wine that's worth drinking. You could have more Italian down there, but it's not bad for an _American_ wine cellar."

"Well I had an Italian down there, but he couldn't handle the cold." America teased, finally locating and unearthing the remote from behind the cushion he was on.

"Well maybe he could have if he'd had a better sweater." Romano shot back, smirking.

"Ooh," America grinned, leaning closer and snapping his teeth. "_Somebody _wants to get bitten."

Romano leveled a look at him, arching a brow. "Do I _look_ like a chew toy to you?" He asked dryly, gesturing to himself.

America's eyes flicked deliberately up and down his form, and he arched a brow right back. "Is that a trick question?"

The side of Romano's mouth quirked up in challenge, his hand reaching for the throw pillow that lay on the couch next to him.

"So, South Italy, did America show you the Canadian wine?" Canada interjected, causing them to remember he was there. They turned to look at him; America settling back against the couch, Romano's hand abandoning the throw pillow as he nodded.

"Yeah, he did. It's some of the first stuff he showed me, since it's near the door."

"It's fairly new." Canada admitted, smiling self-effacingly. "Most of the wine production at my place only really picked up in the last twenty years or so, eh?" He tucked his hair behind his ear, leaning to bump his shoulder against America's. "So I only really started bringing it to America in the last few years."

"Which is kind of funny," America told Romano, leaning forward to grab a handful of popcorn from the bowl, "cause he's always been more into wine than me. _And_ it's legal for him to drink in his place."

"Well, I was raised by France for a while," Canada reminded him. "And there are a lot of French-Canadians, so that probably has something to do with it, eh?"

Hearing that, Romano's brows met, eyes widening in surprise, and he regarded Canada warily. "You were raised by France?" He _knew_ there was something wrong with the bastard! He was contaminated by_ French_-ness!

"He was for a while, before England got him." America confirmed, flicking a kernel of popcorn up and catching it in his mouth before he continued, "And a lot of his colonists were French, too. Don't worry though," he reassured Romano, who was looking a little spooked, "he's not like France." Canada leaned back a little to meet Romano's eyes behind his brother's back, and gave him a slow smile. Romano suppressed a shudder, ducking out of his line of sight and scooting a little closer to America, who (oblivious to the exchange) hesitated, adding conscientiously, "Except sometimes he is, a little. But he's my brother, and you're my best friend, so you have nothing to worry about."

"Mhm~." Canada tilted his head, smiling brightly. "_L'a_—" He was cut off as America sat bolt upright in alarm, clapping a hand over his brother's mouth.

"_Mattie."_ He said sharply, urgently. "_No French._ And don't try that 'I wasn't speaking French' bullshit," he said flatly, pointing a warning finger when Canada gave him an innocent look over the hand obstructing his mouth. "Nothing in _English_ starts with _L'—any_thing_. _No French. You _promised."_

Canada's gaze turned wide and apologetic, and he nodded slightly. America watched him for a moment, and then, satisfied that his brother understood, removed his hand, wiping it on his jeans.

"I'm sorry, Al." Canada said quietly, looking down and hugging the blanket in his lap to him like he would Kumajiro if he was present. "I forgot. I didn't mean to. Really."

America's expression softened. "I know," he said understandingly, laying his hand on his brother's shoulder. "But you have to be careful, Mattie. You could have seriously hurt Romano. When it's just you and me you can speak French to your heart's content." He reached over to settle his other hand protectively on Romano's leg. "But when Romano's around, no French. Of _any_ kind. It's just not safe. So let's be careful. Okay?" He held his brother's eyes seriously.

"Okay." Canada nodded, looking chastened. "I'll be careful, America. I didn't mean any harm. It's just habit, eh? I'm really sorry for forgetting." He bit his lip, looking tentatively at his brother and hugging the blanket in his arms. "We good?"

"Yeah, Mattie, we're good." America smiled, patting his brother's shoulder, and Canada smiled happily back.

Satisfied now that that potential danger had been sorted, America focused his attention on Romano, looking him over with concern. "Are _you_ okay, Romano?" He asked, scanning his best friend for any sign of discomfort or injury. Romano looked a little tense and worried, but not physically harmed. At least on the surface.

"Mmh," Romano made a noise of sort-of confirmation, brows furrowed and lips pursed in a preoccupied frown. America's own brows furrowed in response, and he cupped the side of Romano's face.

"Are you sure?" He lowered his face closer to Romano's, speaking softly and rubbing his thumb soothingly over Romano's cheek, watching him closely for any indication that he wasn't okay. "You aren't hurt or anything, are you?"

"No," Romano muttered, reflexively grasping the front of America's shirt loosely for protection from Canada, still a little unnerved over the recent revelation. "I'm okay."

"Good." America smiled in relief, eyes searching his face. "I want to make sure you're safe. I'm going to do my best to make sure nothing hurts you, Romano."

"I can take care of myself, bastard." Romano told him, frowning half-heartedly, his face heating a little. And he could, of course, but he was touched (and relieved) that America was trying so hard to keep him safe; even protecting him from his own brother— who was scary as _fuck_, and Romano knew for _sure_ now the bastard had it out for him. For _whatever _reason, who knew. Probably his French instincts, or something. But America would keep him safe, so it was okay. "And anyway, I'm okay." He reassured America, looking back up to meet his eyes.

"That's good." America smiled warmly, caressing his cheek. "I'm glad you're okay."

Romano gazed back into his eyes, and licked his lips.

_This is ridiculous, _Canada rolled his eyes and cleared his throat, shifting actively on the cushions in an effort to get more comfortable. "So what are we going to watch?"

"Hm?" America straightened, his hand dropping to Romano's shoulder as he pulled away to look at his brother. Romano blinked at the unexpected loss, fingers suddenly clutching nothing as the fabric of America's shirt slipped from his fingers with the movement.

"On tv, what're we going to watch?" Canada asked, folding his hands in his lap.

"I don't know," America admitted, glancing at the television which was still powered off, and the remote which sat next to his leg, before turning back to Romano, removing his hand from his shoulder as he settled back into his seat. "Anything you want to watch, 'Mano?"

"I don't know," Romano frowned, sitting back as well. "How am I supposed to know what's on in your country?"

"Good point." America grinned, picking up the remote. "I can always pull up the guide."

"We could watch a movie." Canada suggested.

"Works for me." America glanced over at Romano for his opinion, and Romano shrugged, waving a hand in an 'eh, why not' gesture.

"Yeah, sure."

"Okay." America smiled at him.

Canada's lips thinned, a little vexation rising as he noticed how much of his brother's attention was focused _solely_ on South Italy.

"How about a horror movie?" He suggested innocently, scooting a little nearer to America (that was a good idea: once the movie got started, then South Italy would see who was _really_ closer to America. America would cling to _him_ when things got scary, 'cause he barely knew South Italy, really. 'Best friends' or not).

"Nah, it's too early for horror." America dismissed. "They're better when it's dark. What do you want to watch, Romano?"

"I don't know," Romano shrugged again, noncommittally. "What do you have?"

America grinned a little proudly. "_Everything_." He got up, walking over to one of the cabinets next to the TV and opening it to peruse the hundreds of movies it contained. "Anything you could want, really. I'm kind of in the mood for a romantic comedy." He mused, crouching and running his finger across the titles of some of his favorites.

Canada groaned. "No chick flicks."

America clicked his tongue in disapproval. "You just don't know how to appreciate a good romance." He chided, standing and resuming browsing titles. "How about a blockbuster, then?"

"Why don't we watch a series?" Canada suggested, pulling his legs up on the couch and folding them. "Like a trilogy or something. It's a Saturday, we don't have to work tomorrow, so we could stay up and watch them all together."

"Oooh, a marathon?" America approved. "Good idea. It's been a long time since we've had one. That cool with you, Romano?" He asked, looking over his shoulder at his best friend, who nodded a little.

"Sure."

"'Kay." America grinned, waving him over. "Come help me choose, then. Since you're the guest, you get to pick what we watch." America waited 'til Romano reached his side, then he started pulling out movies in sets and trilogies, moving quickly as he pulled each set out about an inch or so on the shelf so Romano could read them more easily and would know what the options were. Romano scanned the films, which spanned just about every genre ever conceived; some he recognized, most he didn't. There were already dozens to choose from, and America was still pulling out more.

When America reached the_ Godfather_ trilogy he automatically started to pull them out, and then paused, glancing at Romano out of the corner of his eye, remembering how he'd reacted to the mention of the movies back in the diner, and surreptitiously pushed them back in. Romano noticed, and cast a grateful glance his way.

Resuming his perusal, Romano pursed his lips as he searched for something he'd like to see. There were a lot of good movies here (and a lot of not so good ones, as well) among of the ones he recognised, and not a few he wouldn't mind seeing again sometime, but that he wasn't particularly interested in watching right now. He lingered over the _Dollars_ trilogy (he had a special fondness for _Trilogia del dollaro_, especially _The Good, the Bad and the Ugly_); eventually, though, he decided on Star Wars, which he'd seen in the theaters decades before. He'd enjoyed the series then, and wouldn't mind seeing them again.

America thoroughly approved of his choice, and even Canada didn't have any passive aggressive complaints, and soon the trio of best friends and brother were lounging in relative darkness (America insisted on drawing the curtains and turning off all the lights to 'enhance the experience'), and enjoying the film.

"He used to remind me of you;" Romano remarked as Luke Skywalker went charging off to save the captive princess, dressed as a Storm Trooper.

"Yeah?" America looked over and smiled, feeling a happy little flutter inside at the thought that Romano had been thinking of him even before they were best friends. "Because he's the hero?"

"Because he's an idiot," Romano corrected, digging in the popcorn."He's young and stupid and has no idea what's going on; and he's always charging in half-cocked to save everyone when he's got no idea what he's doing, without listening to what anyone else has to say."

Canada snorted with laughter on the far side of America.

"That's not true,'" America protested. "I mean yeah he's young, but he's not stupid. He's just inexperienced. And it's not like anyone else knows what's going on, either; he's just the only one who's _doing_ something about it. And it works out, too. He's the hero."

"He's still an idiot." Romano asserted, gesturing to the blond who'd just broken into the princess' prison cell and was now staring at her in dumbstruck silence.

"Well, he's new to it all." America said reasonably. "He gets better later. He matures a lot later on. And he's still the hero." He shrugged a shoulder, grabbing a handful of popcorn. "Besides, you can't really blame him. She's _hot_."

"True." Romano nodded, because it was.

"You're more like Leia." America said thoughtfully after a moment.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Romano narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms. "I'm not a girl, bastard."

"I know that, but Leia's the only one in the series who ever knows what's going on most of the time. And she's smart and snarky and badass and she _always_ looks great, no matter what's going on. I mean look at her; they just jumped into a garbage compressor and she _still_ looks great. And she kicks ass in all three movies. She's awesome."

"Hm. Alright then." Romano said grudgingly. He was a little flattered by the comparison in that light, but he wasn't willing to admit it aloud.

"Who am I?" Canada asked.

"You're an ewok." America teased; poking his brother's cheek. "Cute, but annoying."

"I don't want to be an ewok." Canada protested; batting his brother's hand away. "Choose something else. And not a wookie." He added as America opened his mouth.

America grinned. "How about a Wampa? Like the yeti dude. You like snow, right?"

"No," Canada pouted, squeezing his blanket. "Choose someone good, America."

"Lando." America decided. "He's pretty cool. He's super-polite, and has his fancy private city up on the clouds, all peaceful utopia and whiteness everywhere. That's like Canada right?" America grinned, nudging his brother with his elbow. "Plus he's sneaky as hell."

"I guess that's okay." Canada accepted, subsiding into the couch.

"And England's Threepio." America added, and Canada smiled, stifling a laugh.

"I don't think he'd like that very much."

"Haha, I bet he wouldn't." America could just imagine the look on England's face. "It's all just in fun, anyway. It's not like there's a deeper meaning to it."

"That's true." Canada conceded. "So who would Prussia be? Or France?"

"I don't know," America said after a moment's thought running through the available characters in his mind. "None of the characters in Star Wars really match up with any of us, personality wise. 'Cept maybe Romano and princess Leia." Romano grunted and nudged him in the ribs with an elbow to remind him that he wasn't a girl. (He still wasn't _entirely_ thrilled about being compared to the only female in the show, but he didn't mind as much as he normally might have since America was right— she was the only one with her head on straight, was gorgeous and consistently kicked ass. Leia didn't take shit from _anybody_.)

"Y'know," America chuckled, confiding, "for the first couple movies I thought she and Luke should end up together. I mean, she's a hero, he's a hero; they're both always looking out for the people they care about, and stuff. I mean, I like Han Solo but she and Luke would've perfect for each other if they weren't brother and sister. Especially after he becomes a jedi. They'd make an awesome team." He nudged Romano, leaning in close to stage-whisper. "You're not secretly my brother or anything, are you?"

"Don't be an idiot, idiot." Romano snorted, pushing his face away. "As if I could be related to someone like you."

America laughed.

"That's good." He grinned, slinging an arm around Romano's shoulders. "Then we should be fine."

"Yeah? Why's that?" Romano asked; wondering if America was trying to tell him something.

"Well for one thing, I know you're not going to run off and marry Han Solo." America teased, moving his arm from Romano's shoulders and wrapping it around his waist a little possessively, ready to keep rogue Romano-stealers at bay.

"Eugh." Romano's face screwed up in disgust. "And anyway, I'm not Leia."

"And I'm not Luke." America said.

"No." Romano agreed.

"So we're good." America nodded in satisfaction; relaxing deeper into the cushions and drawing Romano closer. Romano made a pleased little grumbling sound; relaxing into his best friend's side as they returned their attention to the movie.

On the other side, Canada shifted, leaning on the arm of the couch, missing Prussia. Ignoring the movie, he withdrew his cellphone, scrolling through his call history and frowning. Now that he thought about it, he was a little worried that Prussia hadn't called him back yet. He hadn't had time to think about it earlier, what with being focused on making sure that America didn't forget about him now that South Italy— oh, excuse him, ''_Mano'_— was around prancing around in The Jacket and they were getting all...cozy and whatever, what with their 'best friends' schtick. But now that he _was_ thinking about it, getting called away early from their weekend together, not answering his phone, even for France...and the fact that even _France_ didn't know where Prussia was or what he was up to, well, that was especially worrisome.

He sent a quick text to Prussia, and as an afterthought sent one to France, too, and slid the phone back into his pocket, settling down to watch the movie and wait.

They took a quick break after the first movie to grab snacks and drinks before putting the second movie in.

Canada noticed with some annoyance that his brother and South Italy resumed their cuddling session as soon as they'd settled back down on the couch. South Italy even went so far as to throw his leg across America's lap, and America rested his arm on it. He was pretty sure neither of them even remembered he was there.

It was ridiculous.

And neither Prussia nor France had texted him back yet. Or called. It was worrying.

He sighed, wishing he had Kumajon there to cuddle and tell him everything would be alright.

Romano nibbled contentedly on a cracker, comfortable and well-fed and warm, and basking in the glow of his new friendship. This best friends thing was turning out to better than he could ever have expected. Dangers from Canada and moose aside (which America would protect him from anyway), America's arm around him felt nice, and leaning against his side felt nice, and really the whole thing was...nice. He even felt comfortable enough to throw his leg across America's lap, and enjoy America's arm on his leg, without worrying that America would do something weird or make a big deal about it and embarrass him, and really just the whole thing was really nice.

And America kept looking at him and smiling at him like he was something special, and generally just seemed really happy that he was there. In fact Romano was pretty sure America was paying more attention to him than he was to the movie.

To be honest, he wasn't paying much attention to the movie, either.

Romano couldn't remember the last time he'd been this happy.

He shifted against America's side, lifting his left arm to drape it across America's arm on his leg. America looked at him out of the corner of his eye and smiled, lips curling up in a happy little curve, and Romano hid his own smile and the warmth in his cheeks by resting his head on America's shoulder and pretending to watch the movie. He could feel America pretending to watch the movie next to him, too. It felt really nice.

All he could really see from here in the darkened room was the television, playing the movie, or his and America's arms and legs, and his focus was on the latter. He liked seeing himself and America together like this, their limbs tangled in an intimate manner that spoke of their close friendship. Sitting like this, anyone could just look at them and see that they were best friends. There could be no doubt or question. Only best friends would sit this close.

America was warm and firm and smelled nice, and the shirt he wore felt soft under Romano's skin where his face rested on his shoulder. He ran the fingers of his left hand lightly along America's sleeve, wondering whether the shirt was as soft all over. It was, pleasantly so, and soon he was engrossed in running his fingers and hand over America's forearm, toying with the sleeve, enjoying the feel of the soft fabric under his fingertips and the supple firmness of his best friend's arm underneath. It was a little awkward, though, with his left arm half-pressed against America's side, so he pulled America's arm closer, almost into his lap, so he could handle it more easily.

That was much better.

America's sleeve had ridden up a bit as a result of the move, exposing a pale wrist, and, curious, he ran his fingers over that, too, where smooth skin disappeared under cloth and the two textures juxtaposed (he was vaguely aware of America watching him, but he was too preoccupied in his task to pay it much mind). America's wrist— and hand, too, Romano could see— were strong in appearance, but still held the slight angularness of youth, the teenage years which he hadn't quite outgrown yet. He turned America's hand over, trailing his fingers across the soft, thin skin of his inner wrist, running his thumb across the fine lines edging the heel of his palm.

America watched Romano, mesmerized by the sight and feel of his best friend's fingers sliding over his skin, nimble, warm and deft, the Italian's darker olive coloration a pleasing contrast to his own pale skin. They looked good together, he thought. And Romano touching him felt really nice, almost a tickling sensation but pleasantly so. _Very_ pleasantly so. Romano had touched him earlier, he remembered, up in the bedroom when he'd been sleepy and it had been soothing and really nice, like this, too. He could definitely get used to this. Romano had very nice hands. He'd noticed that before, many times, and now he was learning that they were very nice when touching him, too. Though, he supposed that wasn't really a surprise.

If this was what it felt like to be petted, then it was no wonder dogs and cats liked it so much.

Romano moved his fingers up America's palm, spreading them across it, and America flexed his fingers, curling them up to touch Romano's, lips curling up again when Romano responded by running his fingers up in-between them, sliding them up to the tips and back down, and back up once more. He touched the tips of his fingers against America's, and glanced up, to meet America's gaze. America smiled at him, eyes flickering down to where their fingertips touched and back up to Romano's eyes, and curled his fingers through Romano's as he leaned closer. Romano leaned closer too, tilting his face up to meet him.

"I'm going to go call Prussia." Canada said abruptly, rising from the couch to leave the room, his sudden interruption causing its other two occupants to look over, distracted from their interactions in the personal universe that the two of them had been occupying.

"Okay," America called after him mildly in acknowledgement, returning his attention to his best friend at his side.

* * *

_America was such an idiot._ Frustrated and a little angry, Canada shook his head, hand clenching in his hoodie pocket once more as he pulled out his cell and dialed. He couldn't _believe_ what an idiot his brother was. Couldn't he see what South Italy was trying to do? 'Best friends', _ha!_

He pressed the phone to his ear, listening to it ring as he made his way to the kitchen. It didn't help that he felt completely like a third wheel here. America was absorbed in his new 'best friend', and was forgetting he was even there, and it was awkward and frustrating, and a little lonely. And watching the two of them cuddle— which was totally what they were doing, no matter what America thought— made him a little lonely for Prussia, too. Though if Prussia tried to cuddle that much he'd probably get annoyed with him, neither of them were _that_ touchy-feely, but still, they'd been planning to spend time together, and it would have been nice.

Ha, it was no real surprise that America was a cuddler. His brother had always been more into the physical contact than he was. His own interest in cuddling was pretty much limited to Kumajiro. But, Kumakoro was fuzzy and fun to squeeze.

He missed Kuma, mostly.

He sighed as the call went to voicemail, and ended it, dialing again. He wasn't really expecting to get through, but might as well try again.

He opened the 'fridge and grabbed a soda as it rang. "Hey, Prussia." He said when the voicemail picked up again, and let the 'fridge door close. "Just checking in, eh? I hope you and Kumaball are having fun. Don't feed him too many sweets! Call me when you get the chance. I'm at my brother's. I l— 'll talk to you soon. Goodbye." He hung up, sliding the phone into his pocket. He wasn't _too_ worried about Prussia, he was always getting into trouble, but he always got out of it okay, too; but it would be nice to know what was going on.

He sighed, looking around the kitchen. He didn't really feel like going back into the living room to play third wheel right yet. He was tempted to just go to bed. He was tired, and it had been a long week getting everything ready for the meeting, and all this with America was just making him sad and frustrated and a little angry and depressed. But bed would be lonely, especially without Kuma to share it with, and he didn't really want to leave his brother to South Italy's clutches, anyway. Who knew what might happen.

If he was smart he would go home, he told himself, taking a gulp of his soda. Yeah, he'd taken the weekend off, but there were still a lot of preparations to do for the meeting on Wednesday, and there were chores that needed to be done around his house, too. But, again, that would be abandoning his brother to South Italy, and then America would forget him entirely, and he just...wasn't ready to give up, yet. It was probably hopeless, but maybe there was a chance he could turn the situation around.

He ran a hand through his hair, deciding to get dinner started. Technically that was his brother's place as host, but it wouldn't bother America if he took care of it, and it would give him something to do while he tried to think of some way to keep America from forgetting him.

He still hadn't thought of anything when he returned to the living room almost an hour later, leaving the dinner covered and cooling in the oven. The movie was almost over, and he was annoyed to see the 'best friends' still cuddling at the end of the couch, legs wrapped up together and propped up on the coffee table, America's head resting on South Italy's on his shoulder, one pair of hands entwined and resting in their laps and the other set engaged in playing with each other's fingers, still clearly more engaged in their activity and each other than watching the movie.

He sighed, loudly, and dropped down on the other side of the couch.

"I made dinner." He announced, and America and South Italy lifted their heads to look over, momentarily abandoning their handplay. "It's in the oven, if you get hungry."

"Cool, thanks." America acknowledged with a nod. Romano nodded and 'hn'd', too (privately resolving to make himself pasta when he finally _did_ get hungry. He wasn't sure if he could trust anything Canada might have cooked).

America frowned a bit as he observed his brother. Canada looked a little down. "Everything okay? Were you able to get ahold of Prussia?"

"No," Canada frowned slightly, pulling his legs up on the couch and folding them under him. "No answer. I just keep getting his voicemail."

"Are you worried?" America wondered.

Canada lifted his shoulders, frown deepening. "A little," he admitted, sliding his hands into his hoodie pockets in lieu of having Kumajiro to squeeze. "I mean, he's probably alright, he can take care of himself, but..." He shook his head, sighing resignedly. "Although, knowing him, he's probably just getting into some kind of mischief with his friends and feeding Kumachiki too much sugar."

"Bet you anything he's out with Spain." South Italy commented, lifting one of America's fingers and wiggling it idly. "That bastard hasn't been answering his phone either. I'm sure whatever he's getting himself into, France and Prussia aren't far behind."

"I'm sure France will keep them from getting into any real trouble." America said, looking down at their hands and wiggling his fingers for more of Romano's attentions.

The other two looked at him like he was crazy.

"Are you _crazy_, bastard?" Romano said incredulously. "France is the one who gets them _into_ trouble half the time!"

"He's right, America." Canada affirmed. "France isn't exactly a mitigating influence."

"Yeah? Huh. Everytime he tells me about the stuff they get up to he says he's the one holding things together."

"Sure." Romano snorted. "Like fire holds a house together." He shifted, untangling his fingers from America's and struggling to untangle the rest of himself from America as well in order to rise. "Oi," he batted America's arm with the back of his hand. "I need to get up. I gotta take a piss."

"Ha, 'kay." America helped him sort out their limbs and stand, and leaned against the back of the couch to watch, smiling, as Romano left the room.

Canada's lips thinned as he took in expression. "You really like him, huh?"

America's smile widened, and he folded his arms on the back of the couch, resting his chin on top of them. "Yeah." He flushed with happiness, and lowered his eyes, burying the lower half of his face in his arms almost bashfully to diffuse his pleasure. "I really do. He's my best friend."

Canada paused, taken aback by the sheer..._affection_ and happiness in his brother's voice. Then he frowned, getting back on track. "Don't you think you two are a little," he withdrew a hand from his pocket to waver it, the corners of his mouth pulling back, "_touchy-feely_?"

"What do you mean?" America asked curiously, lifting his head.

"It's just," Canada drew his shoulders up, "you guys _touch_ each other an awful lot. It's a little..._weird_, eh?"

"It's not weird," America disagreed, shifting around a little to face his brother. "And we don't touch each other _that_ much."

"America," Canada gave his brother a dry look, one that said he was being especially obtuse, "you touch him _all the time_. You're _all over_ the poor guy. Guys don't usually touch each other that much, eh? Don't you think you might be making him a little uncomfortable? Most guys don't really go for that sort of thing, you know? And South Italy seems kind of stand-offish..."

"Standoffish to you, maybe. But 'Mano and me are _best friends._ It's different." America pointed out. "We're not like normal guys. And he would tell me if I was making him uncomfortable, Mattie."

"Are you sure?" Canada pressed dubiously. "You _are_ a super-power, America. You have a lot of power. He might be too intimidated—"

"Haha, seriously? _Romano_?_"_ America sat up, smiling incredulously. "Romano's not intimidated by me. And even if he was, I don't think that'd stop him from telling me to back off if I bothered him. He's not exactly _shy._"

"But—" Canada tried again.

"Look, Mattie," America interrupted, shaking his head a little. "I appreciate that you're just looking out for Romano, but you've got the wrong idea here. There's nothing weird about my friendship with 'Mano. I can prove it to you," he added, standing, and patted his brother's shoulder on his way out of the room. "Wait here, I'll be right back."

* * *

_AN: _


	49. Every Good Labyrinth

**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. **

_Short and late, but it's here! Thank you all so much for your patience and courtesy despite the long wait, it means a lot to next chapter is mostly written, so hopefully you won't have to wait nearly as long for another update.  
_

* * *

Although he was loathe to admit it, Romano was in trouble. He'd been wandering around for a while now and he _still _couldn't find the restroom. The happy glow he'd started out with when he'd left the living room had changed to an uncomfortable sense of urgency as the quickly-increasing pressure in his bladder took precedence.

"Dammit, America, your house is too big." He complained to his absent best friend under his breath, peering through yet another door that turned out to be yet another unused room. He'd _thought_ the restroom was one of the doors down the hall on the right after he'd passed the kitchen, but he'd been wrong. Every door he'd opened since had yielded only rooms that were emphatically _not_ restrooms; and, instead of doing the _smart_ thing and going back and asking America where it was, or going upstairs to use the one in his new bedroom, he'd kept going, because he had to be close_,_ right? Just another door or two. Just around the next corner. Going back would just take more time. He'd find it eventually. One of these doors _had_ to be it.

So he'd tried door after door and corridor after corridor without any luck, until now he was lost in the maze of unused rooms and halls that made up America's home. He was trying now to double back, but since he hadn't really been paying attention to where he was going initially— concerned at the time only in his search for relief, and hoping each door would open to what he sought— and because everything in America's house looked pretty much the same anyway thanks to the tastefully bland decor, he'd only managed to disorient himself further. And now he really didn't know if he could find his way back before he wet his pants. Which would be _embarrassing_. He hadn't done that since he was a kid! At this point he was willing to avail himself of even a potted plant if one turned up. Except one wouldn't, he knew, 'cause there hadn't been any when America was giving him a tour earlier (probably because they'd die from lack of attention, forgotten in a myriad of empty rooms).

"Dammit, America." He repeated in irritation as he dithered uncertainly at the junction between two diverging corridors, doing the customary dance of the full bladder and eyeing a lone vase on a hall table nearby speculatively. "Who the hell needs a house this big, anyway? It's not like anyone else lives here, you bastard."

Immediately after he said it, though, he felt a little bad, because America really was all alone here, and he knew how that felt. And _that_ thought made him feel a little guilty, because he'd left America all alone in the living room and he was probably lonely, wondering where Romano went and why he'd been gone for so long. And really Romano would rather be there with him, too, instead of here lost in endless unused space looking for a restroom. _Except_, he remembered, his irritation returning, this whole thing was America's fault _anyway_ for building a house that you needed a map or native guide to get around in when you _really had to pee_, and— wait, he _had_ a native guide_._ Pulling out his phone, Romano addressed both his lostness and America's loneliness with the press of a button.

"Yello~." America's carefree voice was a welcome sound in his ear, and a knot of tension he wasn't aware had been building in his stomach dissipated in a rush of warm relief. He hadn't realised how unsettled and isolated he felt being lost and alone in this maze of empty rooms, but just hearing his best friend's voice and knowing he was there (and ready and willing to rescue him if necessary) was reassuring, even though he was annoyed at him at the moment for building a house with deviously hidden bathrooms. Speaking of which—

"America. Where is your fucking restroom, dammit?!" He demanded urgently, flailing a little.

"'Mano? The closest is the first door on the left, down the hall from the kitchen— are you lost?"

"I'm not _lost_, I just don't know where I am! Why's your house so huge, dammit? I need a map to get around in here! And where's the kitchen from here, anyway?"

"Uh, where are you?"

"If I knew that, bastard, I wouldn't be lost! _You're_ supposed to tell _me! Chigi!_" Romano barked, frustrated. "And hurry up, I _really have to go!"_

"Okay," America accomodated him quickly, "what's around you? Give me a description of the area so I can tell where you are."

"I don't know! Uh," Romano looked around himself, "there's a hall table with a vase on it, but otherwise there's nothing. It's just a _hall_, dammit. There's two doors...hold on," he opened the nearest door, "one's a small closet with nothing in it, and the other..." he crossed the hall to open the other door, peering through, "looks like a guest bedroom. There's a bed and some drawers and a stupid painting on the wall."

"Oh, there might be a bathroom in there. Some of the guest bedrooms have one. Check and see? If not, you can always pee in the vase." America suggested practically.

"You're damn right I will, bastard." Despite the available vase Romano was intensely relieved to find that there was, indeed, a small bathroom attached to the room, through a door that he'd assumed at first glance led to a closet. "Yeah, there's one here. Thanks. Don't hang up, I still need you to help me find my way back." He added hurriedly as he shut the door behind him.

"Okay." America said easily.

Romano set the phone down next to the sink to have his hands free while he took care of business. It didn't take long, and he retrieved it quickly, wedging it in-between his ear and shoulder so he could wash his hands.

"You really need to get some bidets in here, bastard." He said, turning on the faucet.

"Yeah, I'll order you one." America acknowledged offhandedly, and asked, "Hey, do you think we're too touchy-feely?"

"Huh?" Romano's brows furrowed in a frown, unsure what America was getting at. "What does that even mean, 'touchy feely'?"

"Like, do you think we touch too much. That I touch _you_ too much." America corrected himself. "Does it make you uncomfortable?"

"Oh." Romano gestured dismissively (dripping suds onto the counter), although America wasn't there to see it. "No, it's fine."

"It doesn't bother you then?"

"I said it doesn't, bastard. I said it's fine." Romano's frown deepened, lips pursing in concern. "What's gotten into you all of a sudden? Do you have a problem with _me_ touching _you?_" Physical contact was perfectly normal between friends, especially _best_ friends like they were. America hadn't seemed to mind before. Maybe he'd decided he didn't like it after all? Maybe it was a cultural thing? He knew Americans had different customs...

"No, I don't." America said with such conviction it put Romano's brief worries to rest, "I like it. Mattie just thinks it's weird. He thinks I'm taking advantage of you. That maybe you don't like it but you're too polite or political to tell me."

"That's stupid. If I don't like something, I'll tell you." Romano asserted, turning off the faucet and shaking water from his hands. "We promised to be honest with each other, didn't we? Besides, we're best friends. It's not like we're doing anything weird."

"That's what I said!" America said triumphantly. "That's what I told him. We're best friends, of _course_ we're going to touch each other. And I'm showing him the manual, too. I just wanted to check with you to make sure."

"Well, now you know." Romano looked around, his frown still in place, but for a different reason now. "You don't have any towels in here, bastard."

"Oh, sorry. Sometimes the whale runs off with my towels. Use your pants? That's what I do when there's no towels."

"Ugh." After a quick double check, Romano was forced to admit there were no other options, and reluctantly did his best to dry his hands by rubbing his palms against his pant legs. "What does a whale need with towels, anyway?"

"I don't know, I've never asked." America admitted. "They usually turn up again eventually."

"Hn." Now that his hands were moderately dry, Romano took his phone in-hand again so he didn't have to keep bending his neck awkwardly to hold it against his shoulder, and took a few moments to check his appearance in the mirror to make sure he hadn't gotten mussed or anything during his bathroom-searching adventure. Nope, he still looked pretty good. He fussed a bit with his hair, anyway, and smoothed a couple of errant folds out of his clothes, frowning at the water marks on his pants where he'd dried his hands. Oh well, at least they'd dry quickly. Wait- was that a _stain_ on his shirt? He frowned, leaning closer to inspect it in the mirror. No, just a little water. Well, that would dry. Noticing a blond hair on his collar, he brushed it off, reflecting that that was probably going to happen more often.

He stepped back, giving himself one last check over, and decided he looked good. "Okay, bastard." He said absently, flipping off the light as he left the restroom, "I'm done here. I'll see you in a bit." He missed America's answering "But—" as he ended the call and slid the phone into his pocket. It wasn't until he'd opened the door to the hall that he remembered that he needed America to guide him back. With a noise of frustration he reached for his phone again, nearly slamming the door behind him as he entered the hall (but not quite, because it was an antique, and exquisitely handcarved mahogany, and that craftsmanship deserved _respect_. But he shut it _very firmly_, and with _intent._) And then he looked up, and nearly dropped his phone.

Because there was a unicorn in the hall.

A unicorn. There was a fucking unicorn, standing in the hall. There was a unicorn standing in the hall, staring at him.

He'd thought unicorns were extinct! Yeah, sure, England still claimed to see them but everyone knew England was crazy...

Yet here one was, watching him. Just standing there, being a unicorn, in America's house, as if that was a perfectly normal thing to do. Then again, for the unicorn, it probably was.

It had to be a sign of some sort, right? An omen. He wasn't sure— it'd been a long time since he'd thought about unicorns, centuries probably— but he was pretty certain seeing a unicorn was a _really good_ sign.

As he tried to figure out what it meant, he watched it warily, more out of habit than anything else. Maybe it was the unicorn's magic, maybe it was the fact that he'd already seen so many strange things since coming to America, or maybe it was because he was too in shock to register it, but for some reason, despite the fact that he was mere meters away from what was essentially a weaponized horse with mystical powers and a reputation for ferocity, he wasn't afraid or nervous. In fact, he wasn't even freaked out. There was something about the unicorn's presence that was surprisingly comforting, reassuring even. It made him feel like he was safe, and everything would be alright.

The unicorn, having waited patiently for him to come to terms with its existence, turned around and walked a little ways down the hall, then paused to look back at him. He realised that it was waiting for him to follow.

"You want me to follow you?" He asked tentatively.

The unicorn nodded its head, lightly stamping a hoof.

"You're going to show me how to get back? To- to America." He asked, to clarify, incase maybe it was planning to take him somewhere else, like Unicorn-Land, or something. The unicorn whickered, and nodded again.

"O-oh," he said, slipping his phone back in his pocket. "Thanks."

The unicorn huffed in a friendly fashion, turning to lead the lost Italian through the labrythian passages of America's house. Romano followed closely, hoping he wasn't making a huge mistake.

* * *

Leaning on the counter in the kitchen (where he'd gone to retrieve the 'Care and Handling of Italy' manual before Romano'd called and he'd gotten caught up in talking with him), America looked at the 'call ended' display on his phone in surprise. He'd thought Romano had wanted to be guided back? Had he changed his mind? After waiting a few moments to see if Romano would call back, he shrugged, putting the phone away. Romano must have figured it out on his own.

That was cool. It was good that his best friend was becoming familiar with his place, and it made him happy, but he was almost a _little_ bit disappointed, too— he'd been ready (and a maybe little eager) to go and get him if necessary. Like a rescue mission! Saving his best friend from the far recesses of the house. He could see it now— braving the halls to find Romano, and coming across him in a dark corridor, and 'Mano would be so happy to see him and grateful to be rescued that he'd blush, and maybe hug him, and maybe even thank him with... with a kiss on the cheek. (He hesitated slightly, feeling a little shy about thinking that, and blushed, remembering the last time Romano'd kissed him on the cheek, back in Italy.) And then they'd hold hands and talk on the way back.

Of course it wouldn't _really_ happen like that, he admitted, laughing to himself. In _actuality_ 'Mano would probably ask why he'd taken so long to get there and complain about how big his house was (and he _seriously_ doubted he'd get a kiss, but it was nice to imagine), and be upset that he'd had to be rescued. They _would_ hold hands and talk on the way back, though, and that would be really nice. He liked holding Romano's hand, and touching him and stuff. And Mattie was _totally_ wrong, there wasn't anything weird at all about that. He had Romano's word and Germany's documentation to prove it.

Speaking of which— he twisted 'round to snag the manila file from the counter where he'd left it earlier that morning, and pushed off the counter to go and show it to Canada. His brother probably wouldn't take Romano's word for it, since he thought Romano was too intimidated by potential political ramifications to be honest about how he felt, and Mattie wouldn't listen to him since he thought he was too oblivious to know what was going on, but that was alright. The manual Germany had given him should explain _everything_.

* * *

_AN: I have no intention of abandoning this or any other story. Updates may be slow due to health and lifestyle complications, but all stories are continuing until completed, however long it takes. _

_The unicorn was not meant to show up this early, but like the whale, the unicorn didn't want to wait. Everybody wants to meet Romano, it seems! _


End file.
